


Things We Lost in the Fire

by enigmaticblue



Series: Dean Winchester, Agent of SHIELD [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:29:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticblue/pseuds/enigmaticblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over the years, Dean thinks he may have lost just as much as he’s gained. He means to change all that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things We Lost in the Fire

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from Bastille’s song of the same name. See the end of the work for more notes.

**New York City, Spring 2013**

 

Dean hisses as he raises his bed so he can sit up. The doctors have backed off on the medication, and the pain in his shoulder is a dull, relentless ache now. He fumbles with the card that Hill had left that says, “Welcome to the Avengers Initiative.”

 

Clearly, she’s dealt with a lot of doped up agents in the past, because Dean probably would have wondered if he’d dreamed up the whole thing without that note.

 

Dean still can’t quite believe it if he’s being honest. He hadn’t figured he’d be rewarded for going outside mission parameters, but then SHIELD is a little different than Spec Ops had been in that sense.

 

His cell phone is sitting on the little table next to his bed, right by the rather large flower arrangement, and he’s surprised when it starts to ring.

 

Dean has colleagues in SHIELD, but not much in the way of friends. He tends to get a lot of solo assignments, and he spends a lot of time in the field, so he hasn’t had many opportunities to get to know his coworkers.

 

And those he’s met and liked over the last few years tend not to stick around, either because they’re in the same position as Dean, or because they don’t survive.

 

Dean’s had more than enough experience losing people he cares about.

 

So, his phone ringing is a bit of a surprise, because he generally doesn’t get calls outside of work, and they’d all know he’s in the hospital.

 

Thankfully, the table is on his good side, and he’s able to grab his cell with no more than a sharp twinge. He blinks when he sees Bobby’s number on the screen.

 

“Yeah, Bobby,” Dean says when he picks up. “What can I do for you?”

 

“I think I should probably be asking you that question,” Bobby says gruffly. “Seeing as how I’m not the one who got shot.”

 

Dean hadn’t thought his injury was _quite_ that serious. Assuming an agent’s emergency contact was outside the agency, they only make the call when someone’s dead or dying.

 

“Did someone call you?” Dean asks, confused.

 

Bobby snorts. “You made national news, Dean. They keep showing footage of you taking a bullet for that guy.”

 

Dean closes his eyes. SHIELD probably kept his name out of things—that’s SOP—but it wouldn’t stop those who know Dean from recognizing him. “Sorry about that.”

 

“Don’t be an idiot,” Bobby replies. “You were doing your job. I’ve got someone here who wants to talk to you, though.”

 

Dean frowns, and then nearly drops the phone when Sam says, “Dean?”

 

Dean hasn’t heard his brother’s voice in years now. “Yeah, it’s me.”

 

“You okay?”

 

Dean wonders if he’s still on the good stuff after all, even if his shoulder aches like a son of a bitch. “I’ve had worse.”

 

Sam lets out a strangled sound that might almost be a laugh. “I saw the news footage.”

 

“It probably looked worse than it is,” Dean says. “I got lucky. It didn’t hit any vital organs, and it didn’t crack any bones.”

 

“That’s good,” Sam replies. “You—they said you were with Tony Stark.”

 

Dean winces, uncertain of how much he’s allowed to say. Then again, the fact that he’d been with Tony Stark would have been obvious from the news coverage. “Yeah, it was a job.”

 

He knows that’s probably the wrong thing to say; Sam has never understood what Dean’s job demands, even if it’s not all that different from hunting.

 

Dean still has secrets. He still lives apart from society, and he still hunts monsters. He just hunts a different kind of monster these days.

 

“Protecting the richest man in the country, huh?” Sam asks, and Dean hears the bitterness in his voice.

 

“His buddy, actually,” Dean replies. “Stark was smart enough to duck.”

 

“Right, okay,” Sam mutters. “I hope you feel better.”

 

Just like that, Sam’s gone, and Dean would probably smack himself in the forehead, but he’s got the phone in his good hand, and his other arm is strapped to his chest.

 

Bobby gets back on the line. “What your brother was too stubborn to say is that if you’ve got some time off to recover, you should spend it here.”

 

Dean closes his eyes. “I’d love to see you, Bobby, but don’t tell me Sam’s going to be there, or that he wants to see me.”

 

“He’s going to be here,” Bobby says. “He was the one who suggested it.”

 

“Don’t,” Dean replies.

 

“Come if you can,” Bobby replies. “How long you going to be in the hospital?”

 

“What makes you think I’m still in the hospital?”

 

“Don’t insult my intelligence,” Bobby orders.

 

Dean smiles. “You got it.”

 

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told your brother,” Bobby says, and from the volume of his voice, Dean suspects that Sam’s still nearby. “It’s time to bury the hatchet. You may not have all the time in the world.”

 

Dean bites back a sharp retort. He might have set events in motion, but the long, bitter years of silence between him and Sam hadn’t entirely been his doing. “Yeah, I know. I’ll let you know if I can make it.”

 

“Get better,” Bobby says.

 

Dean mumbles a goodbye and sets the phone down. He’d just about decided to put that part of his life behind him. He wouldn’t be the only person in SHIELD with a rocky relationship with his family. Dean’s gotten his hopes up before.

 

He’s not going to do it again.

**Hurleyville, New York, May 1997**

 

Dean presses the phone tightly to his ear, hearing it ring, and he tugs on the collar of his shirt. He’d half-expected his dad to show up on his eighteenth birthday, but he hadn’t. Dean had tried calling Bobby a few times, but had never been able to get an answer.

 

He’s trying again now, because he’s got a decision to make, and he can’t do that without at least attempting to see his dad again.

 

Without at least knowing what happened to Sammy.

 

Dean’s afraid Bobby won’t answer this time, but then a familiar, gruff voice says, “Singer’s Salvage Yard.”

 

“Uncle Bobby?” Dean asks.

 

Warmth enters Bobby’s voice. “Dean, how are you?”

 

Dean breathes a sigh of relief. “I’m good. I’m okay. I, uh, I’ve been trying to get ahold of Dad. Have you seen him lately?”

 

“Not for at least six months,” Bobby replies. “I’m sorry, son. Your dad and I got into an argument, and I haven’t talked to him since. Sam is with him.”

 

Dean figures that’s not all that surprising. “You got any idea where they are? Or where I could find them?”

 

“What’s your hurry, boy?” Bobby asks.

 

Dean rubs the back of his neck. “I’m graduating today. I thought I could meet up with him, see them again. If I knew where—”

 

“John knows where you are,” Bobby says, interrupting him. “He’s on some wild goose chase, and he hasn’t come back in months. I don’t know where he is, or even if he’ll come back, given what passed between us. If you’ve got a chance to live your own life, boy, you take it, you hear me?”

 

Dean swallows. Maybe things had gone to hell, maybe his dad hadn’t been able to come for him before, but the fact remains that his dad isn’t here _now_. Dean had turned 18 months ago, and his dad could have legally taken him without anybody caring.

 

Instead, January had come and gone, and Sonny had been the one to ask Dean to stay, to tell him that he could bunk there as long as he wanted, even though the state said he should boot Dean out.

 

The last year and a half, Sonny had been a father to him, and now Dean is graduating from high school, with his whole future ahead of him.

 

His dad knows where he is, but he’s still not here. He apparently has no intention of seeing Dean again.

 

“Yeah, I get it,” Dean says, swallowing the guilt. It’s his own fucking fault they got separated in the first place, that his dad _had_ to leave Dean behind.

 

He’d been stupid and thoughtless, and he’d fucked it all up. He’d put Sammy at risk, and he’d put his dad at risk, and maybe it was better this way.

 

Dean would make sure he didn’t screw this shit up ever again.

 

“Dean,” Bobby says, interrupting his self-recrimination. “Congratulations on graduating. You doing okay?”

 

Dean smiles, even though he knows Bobby can’t see it. “Honor roll,” he says, because he knows that will matter to Bobby. “I lettered in wrestling, too.”

 

“I’m proud of you,” Bobby replies, and the words sound thick. “You stay in touch, you hear?”

 

“I hear,” Dean replies.

 

“You know what you’re going to do?” Bobby asks.

 

Dean swallows. “Thought I might enlist.”

 

Bobby sighs. “You do what you have to do, and you stay in touch. If your dad comes through, I’ll let him know your plans. Tell him to get in touch with you.”

 

“Okay,” Dean says helplessly. “You take care, Bobby.”

 

It’s all he can say, and he hangs up the phone when Bobby echoes the sentiment, leaning his forehead against the wall.

 

His dad isn’t coming. Maybe he wasn’t ever going to come, and that’s on Dean, too. He just hopes like hell Sammy’s okay without Dean there to look out for him.

 

“You ready?” Sonny asks Dean. “You’re going to be late if we don’t hurry.”

 

Dean takes a deep breath and fixes a smile on his face. “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks for letting me make the long distance call.”

 

“Hey, whatever you need, D-Dog,” Sonny replies, and Dean knows he means it. He knows that if he had a bead on his dad, Sonny would buy him a bus ticket with no questions asked, just like Dean knows that Sonny will take him to the Army recruitment office tomorrow, also with no questions asked.

 

Sonny’s good people.

 

Dean takes a breath. “Think I’m gonna enlist after all. Uncle Bobby didn’t know where to find my dad, and… I don’t know. Maybe it’s better to do it this way.”

 

“You do what you need to do,” Sonny replies. “You stay here as long as you need to figure out what that is.”

 

Dean feels a little stronger now, knowing he could stay; he thinks it’s why he has to go. “I’m going to enlist. It’s a good career, and I can get money for college. Maybe I can find a way to help people.”

 

“Whatever you do, I’m sure you’ll help people,” Sonny says. “You’ve been a mentor to the other boys, and you’ve done good work here. You’re going to be fine, whatever you decide.”

 

Dean nods. “Yeah, thanks.”

 

Sonny straightens Dean’s tie. “Come on. Let’s get you to the ceremony on time, okay?”

 

Dean runs a hand over the front of his shirt. “Wouldn’t want to be late for that.”

 

Sonny pats Dean’s chest. “You still want to enlist tomorrow, I’ll drive you down there myself.”

 

Sometimes, Dean thinks, it’s nice to be proven right.

 

Dean walks the stage that day in his cap and gown, something he’d never thought would happen for him, and he’s not sure whether loss or pride is the predominant emotion. Sonny’s proud enough for both of them, he thinks, and Dean doesn’t see the man standing at the back of the auditorium, clapping with the rest of the audience, just like Dean doesn’t see him slip out once Dean has taken his seat with the rest of those who had received their diplomas.

 

The truth is that Dean doesn’t see John Winchester because he’s stopped looking for him, and because John slips out early.

 

Whether Dean sees him or not, John has always done what he’s thought is right for his kids, and this situation is no different.

 

**New York City, Spring 2013**

 

Dean crosses the lobby of Stark Tower, his bad arm still in a sling, dressed casually since he’s technically off-duty for another two weeks. He’s just here to get his security pass from Stark’s head of security since he’ll be coming in and out of the Tower a lot as the Avengers’ liaison to SHIELD.

 

He’s nearly to the bank of elevators when he hears someone call his name. “Hey, Winchester!”

 

Dean turns to see Barton jogging across the lobby. “Hey, man!”

 

Barton claps him on his good shoulder. “I didn’t think you’d be back to work so soon.”

 

“I’m just here to get my security badge from Stark’s guy,” Dean replies. “I still have two weeks before they’ll even let me come back to desk duty.”

 

Barton grimaces sympathetically. “Aw, man, that sucks—but I guess that’s what you get for taking a bullet for the Hulk.”

 

Dean winces. “I’m not ever going to live that down, am I?”

 

Barton punches the button for the elevator. “What’s to live down? You hit on the secret to dealing with the Hulk.”

 

“What’s that?” Dean asks.

 

Barton grins. “Get Bruce to like you. Big Green seems to like the people Bruce does—that and smashing. That’s one of the reasons Stark and Banner asked for you as their liaison. You’ve already got a leg up on everybody else. Neither of them will forget what you did.”

 

“Bruce seems like a nice guy,” Dean replies. “And I have a real problem letting people get shot.”

 

Barton smiles. “You know, I heard that about you. Got any plans for the next two weeks?”

 

“Gonna go see my brother, actually,” Dean says, keeping his voice nonchalant.

 

“Been long since you seen him?” Barton asks.

 

Dean shrugs. “A few years. Missions keep me busy, and he’s on the road a lot for his job. Fury said I could tell him about the new position, since I’ll be out in the public eye some.”

 

“You good with that?”

 

Dean shrugs. “Undercover work is overrated if you ask me. We can’t all be Romanoff.”

 

“That’s true enough,” Barton replies with a smirk. “She’s certainly prettier than you.”

 

“You’re just saying that because you’re jealous of my dashing good looks,” Dean replies as the elevator opens into the penthouse.

 

“Oh, are we having a contest as to who’s the prettiest?” Stark calls, apparently having heard enough of Dean’s comment to get the gist. “Because I think Bruce wins hands down.”

 

“You’re just biased,” Bruce says fondly. “Agent Winchester, it’s good to see you again. Congratulations on the promotion.”

 

Dean shrugs. “Seems I have you to thank for that.”

 

Stark snorts. “Please. I’m a genius. _Of course_ I’m going I’m going to keep the guy who isn’t an asshole around. Happy should be here in a minute. Barton, we’ve got your arrows if you don’t mind waiting for a few minutes.”

 

Barton plops down on a couch. “No big deal.”

 

“How long have you two known each other?” Bruce asks, looking between Dean and Barton.

 

Dean shrugs. “What was it? The mission in Angola?”

 

Barton makes a face. “Yeah, that clusterfuck. And then we had the one in Chechnya.”

 

“Got drunk off our asses after that one,” Dean says, smiling at the memory. “I think Fury sent out an unofficial memo that we weren’t supposed to be assigned to the same op again after that.”

 

“We may have gotten kicked out of a couple of bars,” Barton admits.

 

Dean smirks. “There was also the seduction.”

 

“Winchester makes a great wingman,” Barton adds.

 

Stark is looking at them with an unreadable expression, and then he grins in sheer delight. “Bruce, you know what this means, don’t you?”

 

Bruce appears both alarmed and resigned in equal measure. “No, Tony.”

 

“We can set them loose on _Steve_!” Stark says, and Dean realizes that he’s referring to Captain America.

 

Dean blinks. “What?”

 

“Operation Get Steve Laid is a go,” Stark announces, rubbing his hands together.

 

Bruce shakes his head. “On your head be it,” he mutters. “I’m staying out of it.”

 

Dean frowns. “Wait a minute. Doesn’t he have women banging down his door? I’ve seen pictures.”

 

Barton laughs. “Yeah, well, this is _Steve_. If it’s not a work-related conversation, he sometimes has a little trouble talking to women.”

 

Dean thinks that might be one of the most adorable things he’s ever heard, and he has to admit that seeing the team dynamics at work is distracting him from his upcoming trip to South Dakota, which he needs right now.

 

He’s made up his mind to see Sam, but he has no illusions about his reception.

 

At least his professional life is going well. That’s something. As is the Avengers’ easy acceptance, although Dean’s pretty sure that has a lot to do with the hole in his shoulder.

 

It’s not so different from Spec Ops, really. You take a bullet for someone, it doesn’t matter how much they dislike you on a personal level—at least most of the time.

 

The elevator opens, and this time it disgorges a stocky guy in a black suit. “Hey, boss. Sorry I’m late.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Stark replies. “Agent Winchester, this is Stark Industries’ head of security, Mr. Hogan. Hap, Agent Winchester, our new SHIELD liaison.”

 

“Pleasure to meet you,” Hogan says.

 

“Call me Dean,” he replies.

 

Hogan flashes a quick smile. “Happy. Give me just a second, and we’ll have you out of here.”

 

“You’re sticking around for a drink, right?” Stark protests.

 

Dean shakes his head. “I can’t. I’ve got some packing to do. Medical won’t let me come back to work for at least two weeks, and I have a flight to catch.”

 

“I can’t promise the booze will be here when you get back, but I restock regularly,” Stark replies.

 

Bruce smiles. “Have a safe trip, Dean.”

 

“Thanks,” Dean replies.

 

“Good to have you on board, Winchester,” Barton says, and then follows Bruce out.

 

Stark hovers nearby. “So, I have work, and it sounds like you have somewhere to be, but thanks.”

 

Dean frowns. “Thanks for what?”

 

Stark gives him a look that suggests he thinks Dean is being unnaturally obtuse. “You didn’t have to take this job, and I’d just about given up on the idea of finding a SHIELD agent I trusted with Bruce.”

 

Dean’s beginning to think that there are a lot of expectations being placed on him that he can’t possibly fulfill. “Mr. Stark, I don’t know what you want from me, but I’m not sure I can give it to you.”

 

“Call me Tony,” he says. “And the fact that you can say that and mean it tells me I made the right call.”

 

Dean frowns. He’d been a field agent and not in regular contact with superheroes; it hadn’t been his division until now. Hill had told him to protect Stark, and Dean had taken that order to its logical conclusion.

 

If he had it to do over again, even knowing what he does now, he wouldn’t make a different choice.

 

Maybe that’s the point, but Dean thinks it’s still fucking stupid that the other SHIELD agents Fury had sent hadn’t been nice to Bruce.

 

Apparently, Barton had been right. Dean had stumbled upon the right way to handle Bruce—and the rest of them—without meaning to.

 

“Whatever I can do,” Dean says finally.

 

“Enjoy your vacation,” Stark replies.

 

Happy clears his throat. “If I can just get your biometric scan, Agent Winchester.”

 

“Right.”

 

Dean submits to the scans, only half-listening to Happy’s explanations of guarding against Life Model Decoys and clones. He’s thinking about the upcoming trip, and what he needs to pack, and everything he’s done to get here now.

 

In the end, Happy hands him the card that a complicated little machine spits out. “That will only work if you’re holding it, Agent Winchester.”

 

“Thanks,” Dean replies.

 

“Have a nice trip,” Happy says.

 

Dean smiles and wishes he could.

 

**Kandahar, Afghanistan, Fall 2002**

 

Dean drops his pack down at the end of his bunk, debating on whether should face plant on his cot or catch a shower and some grub first.

 

When he shifts, he can feel the dust ingrained into the creases of his neck, though, and he itches all over. No matter how tired he is—and after two months creeping around the hills of Kandahar Province, taking out insurgents and gathering intel, he’s really _fucking_ tired—he won’t be able to sleep until he’s washed some of the dirt off.

 

Dean’s rummaging for a clean uniform when he hears someone clearing their throat behind him, and he turns to see a private standing in the doorway of the tent. The kid is young and green as hell, and he stands at attention as soon as Dean turns to look at him.

 

“What can I do for you?” Dean asks.

 

“I’m sorry, sir, but Colonel Barrows wants to see you,” the private says. “He said as soon as you got back.”

 

Dean does _not_ groan, although he wants to—Army Rangers do not whine or moan, even when they haven’t slept in two days and just got back from a long two months behind enemy lines.

 

“Lead the way,” Dean replies, and follows the private through the camp to a Quonset hut that sits roughly in the center.

 

He finds Barrows’ office easily enough and knocks briskly, trying not to let on how tired he is. He salutes and waits for Barrows to give him the go ahead.

 

“Have a seat, Sergeant Winchester,” Barrows says. “I’m sorry to take you from your well-deserved rest, but you received an urgent message a month ago.”

 

Dean’s mouth is suddenly dry, and it’s not from the dust. “I see.”

 

“I’m not sure you do,” Barrows replies. “I’m sorry we couldn’t pass along the news sooner, but your mission was critical, as was your role in it. We couldn’t afford to pull you out.”

 

“I understand, sir,” Dean says evenly, and takes the piece of paper.

 

_Sergeant Dean Winchester,_

_We regret to inform you that your father died on August 15, causes unknown. Robert Singer advised us that the funeral would be held immediately._

 

Dean crumples the paper, not bothering to read the signature.

 

His face creased with sympathy, Barrows slides a letter across the desk. “Mr. Singer was pretty insistent on getting in touch with you, and he passed the message along. I expressed my condolences and told him that you weren’t reachable.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Dean says, feeling numb. It’s easier to fall back on his training and appropriate responses to a superior officer, than to try to come up with something else to say.

 

“I can see about getting you bereavement leave,” Barrows says. “But it won’t be for another couple of months at least.”

 

Dean shakes his head. “No, sir. That won’t be necessary. I would—I’d like to be able to call my uncle, though.”

 

“That can be arranged,” Barrows replies gently. “Do you have anyone else? Any other family?”

 

Dean looks at him squarely. “No, sir. None that will claim me.”

 

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Barrows replies. “Go get some rest, Sergeant.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Dean doesn’t go back to his bunk, though; he finds a quiet spot in the camp and hunkers down to read Bobby’s letter.

 

_Dean,_

_Your commanding officer said he’d break the news to you before you got this, and I hope he did. It’s a shitty way of finding out that your dad is dead, but it doesn’t look like there’s another option here. Best I can tell you is that he went out fighting. He was tracking the thing that got your mom, and it looks like he took it out. He up and disappeared on Sam a few months ago, and Sam and I tracked him down, but we were too late._

_I figured when I called that there would be no way you’d make it back for the funeral. I read the newspapers, and I know you’re seeing action of your own. I’ll try to explain it to Sam, but I can’t promise he’ll listen to me._

_You stay safe and visit when you can._

_Bobby_

 

Dean clutches the paper tightly, hearing Bobby’s voice in his ear as he reads, and he feels sick with guilt. He hasn’t spoken to his father since he was sixteen, and it had been nearly as long since he’d seen Sam. The last time they’d spoken, things hadn’t exactly been cordial. Sam had been pissed off, and Dean still harbored a little bitterness, too.

 

And now, whatever chance Dean had to make amends is gone, burned up right along with his dad’s body.

 

 _I got nothing_ , he thinks. _Nothing but this_.

 

Dean gets to his feet and looks around the camp, and he tries to remember that he’s _good_ at this. He’s a fucking genius when it comes to engineering and demolitions, and he’s shown a lot of promise at tactics.

 

So maybe he’s got nothing else, but Dean will make the most of it.

 

What else has he been doing the last six years?

 

“Winchester!”

 

Dean freezes on his way back to his tent. He doesn’t want to talk to anybody right now, but Scooter’s not going to take no for an answer. “Hey,” he calls.

 

“What’s going on, man?” Scooter asks as he gets closer. “I saw you going into command, and—oh, shit. What the fuck happened? Bad news from home?”

 

Dean hesitates, but there aren’t a lot of secrets in camp, and fewer still in the unit. “My dad was killed while we were out in the field. They’ve already held the funeral.”

 

Scooter’s expressive face shows his horror and sympathy. “How long has it been since you spoke to him?”

 

The guys all know that Dean doesn’t get letters, and he doesn’t take advantage of the opportunities to call home.

 

“Seven years?” Dean guesses. “My uncle is looking after my brother, apparently.”

 

Scooter frowns. “How old is he?”

 

“Nineteen now,” Dean replies. “And he hates my guts.”

 

“Family, man,” Scooter says quietly. “Look, take a shower, and I’ll grab you something to eat, okay? I’ll talk to the other guys. I’m pretty sure Miller’s been holding out on us.”

 

Dean tries to force a smile. “If anybody has alcohol here, it’s him.”

 

“We’ll have to wait until we get out of here for a real wake, but we can at least raise a toast,” Scooter says, clapping Dean on the shoulder. “We got your back, man.”

 

And Dean knows he has _this_ , too.

 

**Sioux Falls, South Dakota, Spring 2013**

 

Bobby looks just the same as always, standing by the baggage claim waiting for him, hands shoved in his pockets and his cap pulled low on his head.

 

Dean had been forced to check a rolling bag, rather than his usual duffel, since that’s a little easier to handle with one arm in a sling.

 

“You got a bag?” Bobby asks.

 

“Checked,” Dean says. “Thought it might be easier that way.”

 

The airport isn’t all that big, so there aren’t a lot of baggage carousels to choose from. They find the right one, and Dean manages to ask the question that’s been bugging him. “Is Sam actually going to be around?”

 

“He was at my place when I left,” Bobby replies. “I can’t promise he’ll be there when we arrive.”

 

“What makes you think this time is going to be any different?” Dean asks. “Bobby, we’ve been over this. It’s water under the bridge.”

 

Bobby is quiet for a long moment, and Dean starts to wonder if he’s gone too far, and said too much. Bobby’s been stuck in the middle of their family drama for damn near twenty-five years, and Dean sometimes thinks that Bobby will cut him loose. Just side with Sam and say fuck it all, and leave Dean rootless.

 

“There’s a lot of hurt between you,” Bobby finally says. “A lot of anger, and whether you like it or not, a lot of that can be laid at John’s door, and mine. I’m not saying we didn’t have our reasons, because we did. Whatever I could say about him, and I could say _a lot_ , John always did what he thought was best for you boys.”

 

Dean swallows. That’s more than Bobby’s said for the last two decades, or near enough. “I know he did.”

 

“What that _means_ ,” Bobby continues as the alarm sounds for the baggage claim, “is that he didn’t tell you boys certain things. Sam wasn’t ready to hear a lot of it until recently, but I gave him your letters.”

 

It takes Dean a minute to figure out what Bobby means by that, and then he hisses out a breath. “Fuck.”

 

“I gave him a few other things as well,” Bobby admits. “Now that I know he won’t go off and burn them.”

 

Dean swallows. “Bobby—what did you tell him about New York?”

 

“I told him enough,” Bobby replies. “Enough so that he’ll ask _you_. He has a right to know, Dean. He saw you get shot on the nightly news, and it shook him up some. Until now, he could tell himself that you had some desk job, and that you were out of danger. He never served, so he didn’t know any different.”

 

“He wasn’t supposed to know,” Dean replies quietly. “He never needed to.”

 

Bobby shoots him a dirty look. “Sam took over the family business, and he puts his ass on the line on a near daily basis. He didn’t think to consider that you might have taken up another cause.”

 

“I’m good at it,” Dean says quietly. “I’m really good at my job.”

 

“You’d have been a good hunter, too,” Bobby replies. “John would have been proud of you, son.”

 

Dean just wishes he could believe that.

 

~~~~~

 

The drive to Bobby’s is made in silence as Dean mulls over Bobby’s words. As far as he knows, Sam has never wanted to know what Dean does for a living, hasn’t ever really thought about it as far as Dean knows. All Sam had known was that Dean abandoned him, and the family business, and he didn’t want to know more.

 

Maybe getting shot on national news changed that.

 

“You staying the whole two weeks?” Bobby asks.

 

Dean hitches his good shoulder. “I figure one week is probably enough for everybody.”

 

“You gonna be good to go back in a week?”

 

“I’m off for two, but I need to find a place to live,” Dean replies. “Get my stuff moved, that sort of thing. I haven’t had much luck with that.”

 

Bobby pulls up in front of the house and says, “I’ll grab your bag.”

 

Dean hasn’t been back here for a long time now, although he used to spend most of his leave at Bobby’s place. At least, right up until his dad died, and he’d come back to see Sam.

 

It’s been ten years, and it feels like he’s lived entire lifetimes.

 

Sam is waiting for them in the kitchen when they get into the house, looking like he’s ready to bolt. “Hey.”

 

He’s filled out since the last time Dean saw him, and his hair is long, but he still wears the same wary expression, tinged with hostility.

 

“Hey,” Dean replies. “How are you?”

 

Sam’s staring at his sling. “Better than you, apparently.”

 

“Getting shot once is no big deal,” Dean tries to joke. “It’s when you spring two or three leaks that you really have to worry.”

 

No one laughs.

 

“How many times have you been shot?” Sam asks quietly.

 

“Are we counting bullet holes, or—”

 

“Fuck,” Sam says, running a hand through his hair. “Why the hell do you _do_ this? Protecting some rich asshole—”

 

Dean holds up his good hand. “Stop. First off, Stark isn’t an asshole. Second, I’ve spent the last twenty years chasing terrorists and drug dealers and all kinds of monsters, and now I’ve got a chance to help save the fucking world. I’m the Avengers’ liaison, not a bodyguard, Sam.”

 

Sam stares at him. “So, what? You left us to join the army, and then you leave the army so you can work for some secret agency? That’s the end game?”

 

“I didn’t leave,” Dean replies, holding on to his temper with some effort. “I did something stupid, and I spent some time in a group home. _That’s_ what happened. I made the best of things.” He rubs his eyes. “I don’t want to do this right now. Or ever, actually.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says after a moment. “Bobby told me some of it. I just find it hard to believe that Dad would just leave you there.”

 

“Dad did what he had to do,” Dean replies, because he’s always believed that. “He knew he had to protect you, and I was safe where I was. He made a call.”

 

Bobby has made himself scarce, and Dean doesn’t blame him. He’s been in the middle of their little family drama for long enough.

 

“They said the Hulk made an appearance after you got shot,” Sam says, apparently deciding to change the subject. “Is he really as big as they say?”

 

“Bigger,” Dean replies. “You kind of have to see him to believe it.”

 

Sam smiles slightly. “I think I’ll take your word for it.”

 

Dean looks away. “I thought you should know about the new job. Chances are that won’t be the last time my face is on the news.”

 

“My brother, the superhero, huh?” Sam says, and Dean isn’t sure whether he’s serious, or is just being a sarcastic asshole.

 

“Nah,” Dean replies. “I’m just the guy who makes sure they get where they need to be.”

 

There’s a pause, and Sam asks, “You want a beer?”

 

Dean knows he probably shouldn’t, not while he’s taking painkillers, but he _really_ needs a drink. “Yeah, that would be good.”

**Sioux Falls, South Dakota, Fall 2000**

 

Dean knows he could have gone back to Sonny’s, and he would have been welcomed without hesitation. He doesn’t have a lot of time until he has to report back to base, and Bobby had said he’d be welcome.

 

He’s still hoping that one of these days, he’ll show up at Bobby’s and find Sam and his dad there.

 

Dean passes a twenty to the cab driver. “Thanks, man.”

 

“Thank _you_ ,” he replies. “Always happy to give a ride to a soldier.”

 

Dean grabs his pack from the trunk and strides up to Bobby’s front door, knocking briskly. When no one answers, he tries the knob, and the door swings open. “Bobby! It’s me.”

 

There’s still no answer, and Dean drops his bag inside the door and goes back out, figuring that Bobby might be working in the yard. He stops cold when he sees Bobby bent over an engine, a teenage boy next to him.

 

He’s taller than Dean remembers, but there’s no doubt in Dean’s mind who it is.

 

“Sammy?” he calls.

 

Sam whirls. “Dean?”

 

Dean crosses the distance between them and grabs Sam up in a bear hug. “God, you’ve grown.”

 

Sam is a little stiff, but he returns Dean’s hug after a moment. “Are you back?”

 

Dean takes a step back. “For a little while. I have to report back to base on Wednesday.”

 

“You’re not staying?” Sam asks. “You’re just going to leave again?”

 

Bobby puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I told you, Sam. Dean’s in the Army. He doesn’t have a choice about how long he stays, and he can only stay here a few days.”

 

“But you had a choice about joining the Army, didn’t you?” Sam demands. “You didn’t have to.”

 

Sam’s expression shows how betrayed he feels, and Dean doesn’t know what to say in response. He doesn’t want Sam to know how close their dad had come to losing both of them, and he’s not sure he wants to tell Sam that it was his fuck up to begin with.

 

“No, I guess I didn’t have to,” Dean admits. “That was my choice.”

 

“You left me alone with Dad,” Sam replies, his tone accusatory. “You just disappeared. Dad said you had a job, but I know that was a lie.”

 

Dean takes a breath. “You’re right. I got into a little trouble, and I had to lay low for a while. I had to keep you and Dad out of it.”

 

Bobby frowns, looking like he wants to say something, but Dean shakes his head.

 

Dean had been a buffer between Sam and their dad in the past, and there are things Sam doesn’t need to know. He’s pretty sure Sam might never forgive their dad if he knows the whole story.

 

“Whatever,” Sam says, his expression twisted with anger. “Just stay away from me. That’s all you’re good at anyway.”

 

He takes off, and Dean watches him go, feeling like shit.

 

“He’ll come around,” Bobby says. “Maybe if you told him—”

 

“You think he’d forgive Dad for not coming back for me, no matter what kind of risk it would have been?” Dean demands. “Fat chance. No, it’s better this way. He can blame me if he wants. He wouldn’t be wrong.”

 

“If you stayed, he might forgive you,” Bobby points out.

 

Dean shakes his head. “I made a commitment, and I still got time to put in. It’s how it’s gotta be, Bobby.”

 

Sam doesn’t come out of his room once while Dean’s there, at least not when Dean could see him, and Dean doesn’t push the issue.

 

Maybe, someday, Sam will know the whole story, but that time isn’t now.

 

**Sioux Falls, South Dakota/New York City, Spring 2013**

 

They don’t exactly _talk_ after that, and Dean thinks maybe they’re both talked out. There’s only so much honesty he can handle at one time anyway, so he doesn’t mind when Sam avoids asking him anything about the past.

 

“So, you’re going to be in New York City now?” Sam asks.

 

“That’s the plan,” Dean replies. “It will be nice to have a home base for a change. What about you? Still engaged in the family business?”

 

Dean already knows the answer to that question, but if they’re going to start afresh, Dean figures he should probably just ask.

 

“Yeah, when something comes up,” Sam replies. “I bartend sometimes, and sometimes I do some welding, a few other jobs here and there. Bobby’s still kind of a switchboard, so when something interesting comes through that’s in the area, I’ll take it.”

 

“That’s good,” Dean replies, for lack of anything better. He wonders how on earth he’d wound up being the Winchester with a college degree. He never would have called that.

 

“What about you?” Sam asks. “Other than working for SHIELD, what is it you do?”

 

Dean begins to shred the label on his beer bottle. “Well, until recently, it was a lot of hunting down terrorists, and people running drugs, maybe some human trafficking for good measure.”

 

Sam nods. “Bobby said—he said you were in Afghanistan.”

 

“I’ve been a lot of places, Sammy,” Dean says quietly. “That’s one of them.”

 

Sam sits down, his hands resting on his knees. “He said that’s where you were when Dad died.”

 

Dean swallows. “Yeah. It was a war, and we were chasing terrorists.”

 

“I called you a coward.”

 

Dean looks out the window. “Yeah, well, I’ve been called worse.”

 

“God, Dean.” Sam pushes both hands through his hair.

 

“Let it go,” Dean advises. “You were a kid, and you didn’t know. Now you do.”

 

Sam meets his eyes. “I forget sometimes that there’s another world out there, you know?”

 

Dean smiles. “So did I, at one point. It’s easy enough to do.”

 

~~~~~

 

Dean is honestly surprised that Sam lasts for four days, stopping by Bobby’s for a couple of hours after work, drinking a beer and eating dinner. He’d expected Sam to find somewhere else to be right away. It’s almost like they’re both trying for a change.

 

That makes it easier when Sam turns up at Bobby’s on a Friday afternoon to let Dean know he’s got a hunt on the line.

 

“I’d ask you to come with me, but—” Sam glances at Dean’s sling. “That’s probably not a good idea.”

 

Dean grimaces. “Yeah. I’d be happy to tag along, but I’m under strict orders from the doctor, and I’d like to get off the desk before I hit retirement age.”

 

He also doesn’t want to piss Fury off, and if he gets injured again, he’d better be saving the world.

 

“It’s just a vengeful spirit,” Sam says. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

 

“Good luck,” Dean replies sincerely. “And you have my number now. When you get a chance, if you’re in New York, give me a call. You can stay with me, see the city. I can probably even get you into the Tower, if you don’t mind saying hello to a rich asshole. Just don’t call him that. I doubt Stark would mind, but it makes me look bad.”

 

Sam nods. “Maybe I’ll do that. Try not to get shot again, huh?”

 

“No promises,” Dean replies. “But I’ll try.”

 

He watches Sam leave, feeling Bobby approach him from behind.

 

“It’s about damn time,” Bobby says.

 

Dean huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, well, you always knew Winchesters were stubborn sons of bitches. How much did you tell him about what happened in Hurleyville?”

 

“I told him enough,” Bobby replies. “If he wants more information, he’ll have to dig it up on his own.”

 

“Thanks,” Dean says after a moment. “You never gave up on me, or on us.”

 

Bobby snorts. “Of course not. You’re family.”

 

~~~~~

 

Dean heads back to New York a couple of days later, settling into the temporary quarters SHIELD provides for transfers. There’s not much to it, really, just a room with a bed, a couch, and a tiny kitchenette. Dean has been living out of a suitcase ever since he’d signed up with SHIELD, and he thinks it might be nice to finally get his stuff out of storage.

 

Assuming, of course, that he can even _find_ a place. After two days of looking, Dean feels none too sure he will. Living in Manhattan is definitely out; technically, he _could_ afford it, but rent would eat up a good portion of his paycheck.

 

He knows he should probably get a real estate agent to help, but he really doesn’t understand why he’s having so much trouble finding one fucking apartment.

 

He’s visited ten places in two days, and he’s about ready to call it quits, or just take the next halfway decent apartment that isn’t too far away from a subway station, and doesn’t have black mold growing.

 

And yes, Dean knows he could ask one of the Avengers for help, but Stark would probably insist on putting him up at the Tower, and Dean doesn’t really want to be indebted to the man.

 

He’s almost relieved when Barton calls him. “Hey, I’m taking Steve and Natasha out for a drink tonight,” he says. “If you’re back in town, you’re welcome to join us.”

 

Dean finds he’s touched by the offer, and also more than a little excited to be meeting Captain America. He hadn’t thought to make friends with any of the Avengers, but he’s known Barton and Romanoff for years now.

 

“Happy to,” Dean replies. “I need a break anyway.”

 

“I didn’t think you were back at work for another week at least,” Barton replies.

 

Dean sighs. “Apartment hunting. I haven’t had to do this for years.”

 

Barton hums thoughtfully. “I may be able to help you out with that. I’ll let you know tonight.”

 

“Thanks, man,” Dean says sincerely. “You know how temporary housing is.”

 

“Sucks,” Barton agrees easily. “I’ll text you directions, and we’ll see you there at eight. They’ve got great bar food if you like that sort of thing.”

 

Dean smiles. “Are you kidding? I could live off that stuff.”

 

The bar Barton directs him to is in Brooklyn, one of those local places with plenty of beers on tap, a scarred wooden bar with brass fixtures, and a pool table in the back. Dean is a little late, and he spots Barton and Romanoff immediately, sitting at a small table in a corner, their heads bent close together.

 

He recognizes the third person at the table, too. Steve Rogers—Captain America—is just as imposing in real life as he is on the news. He’s tall, broad shouldered, and square jawed, and when Dean approaches their table, he rises immediately.

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Agent Winchester,” Rogers says sincerely. “Bruce told me what you did for him.”

 

Dean somehow doesn’t have the heart to insist that it was nothing. If Captain America wants to think Dean went above and beyond, Dean’s not going to argue.

 

Generally speaking, Dean likes to pick his battles. He might have to pick a fight with Captain America at some point, so he’ll keep things cool for today.

 

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” he replies. “Call me Dean.”

 

Steve’s smile is sweet, and maybe a little goofy. “Steve.”

 

There’s a small part of Dean that is quietly exulting over the fact that he gets to call Captain America by his first name. Apparently, Coulson had left a mark on Dean, more than Dean had thought.

 

Dean turns to Romanoff. “Agent Romanoff, you’re looking just as gorgeous as ever.”

 

Dean thinks she might actually be thawing towards him a little, because she almost smiles. “I’d say you’re just as charming, but since you never were, we both know that’s not true.”

 

Barton grins. “She’s got your number, Winchester.”

 

“I’m sorry, which one of us is the pretty one?” Dean asks, taking a seat. “Oh, that’s right: me.”

 

Steve is looking at all of them with more than a trace of confusion. “Do you all know each other?”

 

“Winchester and I had a couple of ops together,” Barton explains. “We may have gotten thrown out of a couple of bars. I didn’t think Fury was going to let us work together again.”

 

“Apparently, Stark and Banner have a lot of pull,” Dean jokes.

 

Steve grins. “Everybody likes to keep Bruce happy. It’s for the best. What about you and Natasha?”

 

Dean sobers, feeling the familiar ache in his chest when he thinks about fallen comrades. “Natasha was with Coulson when they recruited me for SHIELD.”

 

Steve winces. “Sorry.”

 

Barton shakes his head. “You didn’t know.” He takes the pitcher of beer from the center of the table and pours Dean a glass. “To fallen friends.”

 

They all clink glasses, and Dean figures they all carry their share of regret. Strangely enough, it makes him feel as though he belongs here.

 

**Undisclosed Location in Chechnya, December 2006**

 

The warehouse echoes with the sound of gunfire, and one ricochets off the floor next to Dean, creasing his calf. He’s already bleeding from a cut above his left eye, and the mixture of blood and sweat stings. He curses, blinking to clear his vision.

 

At a break in the shooting, Dean scrambles around the perimeter, keeping to the shadows, trying to stay behind the crates. He reaches Scooter first, fumbling for a pulse. “No, no, no,” Dean whispers. “Scoot, man, don’t do this to me. Don’t you fucking do this to me.”

 

Scooter’s eyes flutter open. “Winchester…”

 

“Yeah, that’s me,” Dean replies. “You gotta get up, man. We still have a job to do.”

 

Scooter closes his eyes. “Last man standing, Winchester. Falls on you.”

 

“No, no way. Who was it that told me I couldn’t tell my ass from a tea kettle?” Dean asks.

 

“You got me confused with Miller,” Scooter replies. “Do you think all black people look alike now?”

 

Dean laughs. “No. Miller’s the pretty one.”

 

“You’re not allowed to give my eulogy,” Scooter replies.

 

“You’re not allowed to die,” Dean insists. “I swear, man, I will tell everybody you wore women’s underwear in the field.”

 

“Thought…that was a secret,” Scooter says, and blood bubbles from his lips.

 

Dean takes a deep breath. “To my grave. Just don’t die.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Don’t be sorry.”

 

“Remember the mission.”

 

Dean feels him go still and silent, and he lets out a long breath. They’ve still got a crate of Stark weapons to find and decommission, which means that Dean has about ten bad guys to kill. He raids Scooter’s vest for extra ammo, and then checks his own weapon.

 

He holsters it, because gunfire will give his location away, and instead pulls out his knife. He’s midway around the perimeter of the building when he stumbles over Miller’s body, and he steels himself to rummage through Miller’s pockets. Cam had been shot on the way in, and Dean had known it was fatal as soon as Cam went down.

 

That leaves Dean as the last man standing, without much of an exit strategy.

 

Dean figures that’s about his luck.

 

He gets the first two without so much as a sound, one with a clean slice across the throat, and the next with a knife in the ribs. Dean eases the bodies to the floor slowly to avoid any telltale thumps.

 

The third guy is bigger, and he must hear Dean coming, because he half-turns as Dean’s about to cut his throat, so the blade catches his collarbone instead of making a clean slice. He shouts and brings his gun up, and Dean recovers, driving the knife into his chest. The guy gets off a single shot, and Dean feels a burning pain in his side that means nothing good.

 

He does a quick check as he limps away, trying to remain unseen as he puts some distance between himself and the body. From the little he can see, the bullet creased his side, but he’s bleeding pretty good.

 

There are seven more guys to kill, and then he has to sabotage the weapons so they’ll blow up in these guys’ faces, and then he has to get out of here.

 

Or, he thinks, he could just blow the whole damn thing sky high. The rest of his unit have people waiting for them at home, but Dean doesn’t, and they can’t afford for the terrorists to get their hands on a bunch of Stark weapons.

 

Dean looks around, trying to figure out the best place to set his charge so he can ensure the whole place goes up, and he hears the faintest of sounds from behind him.

 

He stands and turns, but the wound in his calf puts him off-balance, and he can’t see very well out of his left eye, blinded as he is by blood and sweat.

 

Someone grabs his knife hand and twists, and Dean’s hand goes numb. The goon presses his semiautomatic to the center of Dean’s forehead, and he swallows hard, waiting for the bullet.

 

It never comes.

 

The next thing Dean knows, the goon is going down, felled by a middle-aged guy in a suit, whose placid expression doesn’t waver.

 

Dean reaches for his gun with his other hand, and the guy says in a low voice, “None of that. Are you Winchester?”

 

“Who are you?” Dean demands. His vision is beginning to gray out on the edges, and he knows he’s not in any shape to fight this guy—or anyone else.

 

“Agent Phil Coulson,” he replies with a smile. “We’re following up on some intelligence. I’m sorry we couldn’t be here sooner.”

 

Dean shakes his head, trying to clear it. He has no idea who this guy is, or who he’s with, but he apparently had some idea of who _Dean_ is. Since their mission had been classified from here to kingdom come, Dean thinks there’s a good chance that the man is CIA.

 

 _Fucking spooks_ , he thinks and straightens as best he can, because he’ll be damned if he lets a couple of spooks complete _his_ mission, and he’s lost the element of surprise.

 

“Do you know where the other bad guys are?” he asks.

 

Coulson’s expression flickers. “They’re being taken care of.”

 

“By who?” Dean demands in a low voice, and then he follows Coulson’s gaze to the center of a warehouse.

 

There’s a red-haired woman there, wearing—improbably enough—an evening gown, but she’s fighting one of the goons, and she moves like nothing Dean has ever seen before.

 

“Holy shit,” Dean mutters.

 

“That’s one way to put it,” Coulson agrees. “Can you still disable the weapons?”

 

Dean thinks about it. “Yeah, I think so.”

 

He reaches inside his vest for a pressure bandage, and is a little surprised when Coulson pushes his hands away. “Let me do that.”

 

Coulson moves quickly, and Dean grunts in pain as he applies pressure, but Dean figures he’s got a little time before he bleeds out now.

 

“I can give you something to keep you sharp,” Coulson offers, “but it’s going to hit you like a ton of bricks later.”

 

“Do it,” Dean says, and hopes his gut is right, knows he doesn’t have another option at the moment.

 

Coulson jabs a syringe into Dean’s neck, and Dean feels like his veins are on fire for a moment, and it wakes him up. His vision clears and sharpens, and he gasps.

 

He realizes that Coulson has just delivered a powerful stimulant, and that he’s going to crash that much harder later, just as promised.

 

“Help me up,” Dean says. “I gotta get to the weapons.”

 

Coulson hauls Dean up by the back of his tac vest, his grip surprisingly strong for a guy in a suit.

 

“You CIA?” Dean asks as Coulson helps him limp over to the first crate of Stark missiles. He can hear the woman in the background, the sounds of flesh on flesh as she takes them out.

 

“Different agency,” Coulson replies. “We deal with different sorts of threats.”

 

Dean helps Coulson get the lid of the first crate up, and then he starts digging through the packing, finding the first missile.

 

Everything feels too sharp, too bright, and Dean knows that’s a result of the stimulant. It helps him focus, though, and he removes the outer panel with fingers that shake only slightly, and he swiftly removes the mechanism that will let it accept instructions.

 

“These particular missiles won’t accept workarounds,” Dean says. “And they never misfire, which is what makes them so valuable. It’s also what makes them fairly easy to disable if you know what you’re doing.”

 

He has one done and starts on the next when Coulson says, “You know what you’re doing.”

 

“I could do this blindfolded,” Dean replies. “I practiced enough.”

 

“I’m going to get you out of this,” Coulson promises as Dean finishes up with the last missile in the crate.

 

Dean grimaces. “You do what you gotta do.”

 

“We need to go,” the woman says, appearing right behind Coulson. “We’re going to have a lot more company soon.”

 

“I have six more,” Dean replies. “Or my unit died for nothing. Keep them off my back.”

 

He doesn’t bother looking at her to see if she’s following orders; honestly, he doesn’t _care_. He’s got a half dozen more to do, and then he’s going to light the place up.

 

“On it,” she says.

 

“Keep going,” Coulson says.

 

Dean does. “I’m assuming one of you can do the rest if I black out or something.”

 

“We have other means of taking care of them, but this is cleaner,” Coulson replies. “When they find the bodies of the rest of your team, they’ll assume Russian special forces.”

 

“That was the idea,” Dean replies. “The fact that you know that either means you’re privy to some very classified material, or we’ve got one hell of a leak.”

 

“I’d say a little bit of both,” Coulson says. “You should have been able to get in and out cleanly. You were ambushed.”

 

Dean clenches his jaw. “They took Cam out before we even got into the warehouse, and they had twice as many men as we’d anticipated. Miller was supposed to create a diversion while Scooter and I thinned the herd. Scooter took a bullet for me.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

The thing is, Dean thinks Coulson really _is_ sorry. There’s real sympathy in his voice, the kind that says he knows where Dean’s coming from.

 

Dean focuses on the next missile, because he can feel the crash coming. He’s got two left when his hands start to really shake.

 

“Can you finish?” Coulson asks insistently.

 

Dean grits his teeth. “I’d fucking better, right?”

 

He gets through the last two due to sheer cussedness, and a refusal to quit. Scooter had taken the bullet meant for Dean because Dean had been the best at dismantling the trigger mechanisms for the missiles, although any of them could have done it in a pinch.

 

But Dean had been the fastest, and he’s always been good with his hands, and with mechanical things, and electronics. He hadn’t gotten his degree by just being another pretty face, although it had come piecemeal over the last six years.

 

By the time he finishes the last one, he hears sounds that indicate they’ve got more company, and he holds out the bag of components to Coulson. “Go. Get out of here. I’m just going to slow you down.”

 

Coulson fixes him with an expression that indicates he is seriously unimpressed. “Natasha!”

 

She appears like magic and grabs Dean’s right arm, slinging it across her shoulders, taking some of his weight.

 

“You’re really strong,” he says, and he knows he’s going to regret this later, because he can feel that he’s fucking losing it. “And really pretty.”

 

She rolls her eyes. “And you talk too much.”

 

“It’s a flaw,” Dean agrees.

 

She shoots him a disgusted look. “Shut up.”

 

“We need to get him out of here,” Coulson says. “Let’s move.”

 

“We’re never going to make the extraction point,” Natasha replies. “Not if we’re carrying him.”

 

Dean can see from Coulson’s expression that it’s true. “Leave me,” he insists.

 

“If we leave you here, you’re going to die, and it will probably be slow and painful,” Coulson replies. “If I give you another stimulant, you may die, but all three of us have a chance of getting out of here alive.”

 

“You could shoot me,” Dean says seriously. “That would make it quick.”

 

Natasha says something, and it sounds like it’s in Russian, although he can’t be entirely sure. His head feels pretty fuzzy, and even though he’d had some rudimentary lessons, those are all going out the window now.

 

“We are not going to shoot you,” she hisses. “I have enough blood on my hands. Take the stimulant.”

 

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, but Coulson is already shooting him up again.

 

He manages to run at that point, and Natasha and Coulson keep him between them, but he knows he’s high as a kite, and nothing is entirely clear. He just follows their lead, feeling no pain, but knowing it’s coming.

 

When this is over, when it all has a chance to sink in, Dean is probably going to _want_ to die really badly, but right now, he’s got a couple of people trying to keep him alive, and no heart to fight them.

 

They make it to the extraction point, and Dean gathers that they’re just in time as Coulson helps boost him into the helicopter. Someone is strapping him in, and he thinks he can just make out Coulson’s voice over the rotors, and he thinks he hears Natasha say, “Don’t die.”

 

And that’s all he knows.

 

~~~~~

 

Dean begins to come around once, and when he opens his eyes, the face hovering over his own looks strange until he realizes that he’s flat on his back, and he’s staring up at someone.

 

“Go to sleep, Sergeant,” Coulson says, and his face appears above Dean’s. “We’ve got you.”

 

“The woman,” Dean mutters. “Romanoff. Did she make it?”

 

“I’m here,” she says, and she sounds a little pissed off. “Go to sleep.”

 

Dean closes his eyes.

 

The next time he wakes, it’s only briefly, and he hears shouting, and then he’s out again.

 

The third time seems to be the charm, because Dean is in a bed, and he’s got that floaty feeling that means he’s on the really good drugs, and he’s glad of it. It means that the pain, both physical and otherwise, is at manageable levels.

 

He opens his eyes and turns his head, blinking when he sees Coulson sitting in the chair, still wearing his suit and tie, although Dean thinks he might have at least changed his shirt.

 

“You’re awake,” Coulson says quietly. “How do you feel?”

 

“They’ve got me on the good stuff,” Dean observes.

 

Coulson nods. “There were still some bullet fragments in your abdomen. You were in surgery for four hours to repair the damage.”

 

Dean swallows, his mouth dry. “What’s the verdict?”

 

“You’re going to be fine,” Coulson replies. “You’ll have a few new scars, but you’ll be back on duty in a month.”

 

Dean looks away. He’s not sure he can go back now, not after what happened. He’d been with Scooter since before the war had started, with Miller for nearly as long. Cam had been a more recent addition, but he’d been good people.

 

Those guys had been Dean’s family, the only family he had left, and he doesn’t think he can start again.

 

He can’t help but wish that Coulson had been just a little later.

 

“I wanted to offer you a job,” Coulson says. “We’re always looking for new recruits.”

 

“Not interested in being a spook,” Dean replies. “But thanks.”

 

“We’re many things, Sergeant,” Coulson says gently. “And we only take the best.”

 

Dean swallows. “And you think that’s me? You’ve got the wrong guy.”

 

“I think we have the right guy,” Coulson replies, and presses a square of paper into Dean’s hand. “I know you lost your unit, and I know you think you’re alone right now, but I think you survived for a reason.”

 

Dean closes his hand over the card. “What reason is that?”

 

“I don’t know,” Coulson replies. “But neither do you, and that’s the point. Don’t you want to find out?”

 

That’s the question still echoing in Dean’s ears a few days later when he calls the number on the card.

 

He never does ask Coulson how he’d known the exact right thing to say.

 

**New York City, Spring 2013**

 

Before Dean leaves the bar that night, Barton pulls him aside and says, “I think I might have a line on an apartment if you don’t mind Bed-Stuy.”

 

“Honestly, I don’t know enough about New York City neighborhoods to say whether I mind, but it’s gotta be better than some of the places I looked,” Dean replies wryly.

 

“Brooklyn’s not bad,” Clint says. “And it’s not a bad commute. I checked with Steve, too, but he said he didn’t think there were any open places in his building.”

 

Dean frowns. “So, is this place in _your_ building?”

 

Barton hesitates. “That’s okay, right? I mean, I get it if you wanted more space from the team, but—”

 

It’s true that Dean hadn’t wanted to ask Stark because he doesn’t want to take the chance that he’d have to say no to living in the Tower, or some other mark of Stark’s generosity, but Barton’s different. Dean has known Barton for years now, since he’d been at the SHIELD Academy.

 

In his mind, Barton is a buddy, not a target or an asset.

 

“No, dude, not if you don’t mind me being there,” Dean says immediately. “If it won’t cramp your style.”

 

Barton laughs. “What style? I have to warn you, we’ve got some Russian goons that hang around and cause trouble. You’ll be able to spot them by their tracksuits and their use of ‘bro.’”

 

“Tracksuit mafia, huh?” Dean asks. “Are they a threat?”

 

Barton shrugs. “I have to say that having another SHIELD agent in the building won’t hurt my feelings any. Other than them, though, the neighbors are pretty great.”

 

“When can I come by?”

 

Barton claps him on the shoulder. “Does tomorrow work for you? Say, around three? If you like it, you can move in this weekend. Cap already said he’d help us.”

 

Dean blinks. “You really don’t have to do that.”

 

“We’re offering,” Barton replies. “And this is Cap. He’s just that kind of a guy.”

 

“Yeah, okay. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“I’ll text you the address,” Barton promises.

 

That night, Dean stares up at the ceiling and realizes that he’s been done for ever since he’d stuck his hands into one of Stark’s engines.

 

And _wow_ , that sounds dirty even inside his own head.

 

Dean has made a habit of not getting attached, though. He’d lost his family, and every friend he had, and he hadn’t wanted—or needed—any other connections.

 

The thing is, he _knows_ how people like the Avengers operate, even when they’re also SHIELD agents. Dean had taken a bullet for Bruce, who’s one of theirs. They’d asked for Dean to be their handler—at least Stark had, and Dean assumes the rest of the Avengers hadn’t put up much of a fight—which means they’re not fighting Dean’s presence. In fact, they seem to have accepted Dean as part of the team, at least to a certain extent.

 

Dean already knows it’s going to be impossible to keep them at a distance; he _likes_ them too much—Stark, with his expensive cars and careless generosity, Bruce, and his affability, and even Steve, with his All-American, square-jawed moral uprightness. Clint’s been a friend for years, and Natasha had saved his life.

 

So, he’s got three options: he can go to Hill and beg to have his old job back, or near enough. He can do something really, really stupid and get knocked down to Level 1, and get stationed in Alaska doing something awful like observation of satellite data—which is known for being an actual punishment detail.

 

Or he can fucking suck it up, grow as a person, and hope like hell that the fact his new friends are superheroes will make it that much more likely that he’s the one who dies and not them.

 

On second thought, maybe Dean should just stick to making friends with superheroes. They’re far less breakable than the average human.

 

So, he can continue down the path he’s on, making friends and influencing people, or he can find a way to bury himself forever.

 

It’s not really a choice, Dean thinks. He’s in over his head already, and probably had been from the moment he’d started talking to Stark about engines.

 

“Fuck it,” Dean mutters out loud, knowing he sounds rebellious. “Get over yourself, and deal with it.”

 

He knows from experience that you can’t brace against loss. It just comes up on you, and fucks you up.

 

**Hurleyville, New York, Early Summer 1995**

 

Dean swallows hard and adjusts his tie.

 

“It’s going to be okay,” Sonny says, putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Even if your dad doesn’t show, you’ve got a place to go. You stay with me. I’ve already squared it with the judge.”

 

Dean already knows his dad isn’t going to show up. The address he’d given the cops would have been vacated, and he’d snuck in a collect call to Bobby to give his dad a heads up about what was going on.

 

There’s no way his dad will risk losing Sammy.

 

“All rise for the honorable Judge William Koenig,” the bailiff calls.

 

Dean gets to his feet, feeling Sonny rise next to him, listening as the bailiff calls the court to order.

 

He’d been here once before, although that time he’d been waiting for sentencing, and he’d been alone.

 

The judge had seemed vaguely approving at the time, maybe because a lot of kids who came through had parents trying to get them off, and he liked the tough-love stance. He seems less thrilled with it now that Dean’s dad is nowhere to be seen.

 

“Did you father know about the hearing, Mr. Winchester?” Judge Koenig asks, his bushy eyebrows furrowing.

 

Since Dean had passed the news on himself, he can only assume that his dad did. “I think so, your honor.”

 

“Have you spoken to your father recently?” Koenig asks.

 

Dean swallows. “No, sir. Not since I was, um, arrested.”

 

“You haven’t had contact with anyone in all this time?”

 

Dean figures that honesty is the best policy under the circumstances. “I spoke with my uncle twice.”

 

“And he can’t get in touch with your father?” Koenig demands.

 

Dean shakes his head. “No, sir. I have no idea where he is.”

 

Koenig sighs. “Mr. Monroe, you’ve expressed your desire to have Mr. Winchester stay with you.”

 

“That’s correct,” Sonny agrees.

 

Koenig nods. “Very well. Mr. Winchester will remain in Mr. Monroe’s custody until such time as his father requests custody, or until he reaches the age of majority. Dismissed.”

 

Sonny steers Dean out with a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

 

Dean doesn’t shrug Sonny’s hand off, although it’s a near thing. “I warned him,” he admits in a low voice.

 

“I figured,” Sonny murmurs. “Come on. Let’s get something to eat, and we can talk about it there.”

 

Sonny takes him to the diner where Robin works, and Dean waves at her half-heartedly. He’s glad to see her, as much as he’d be glad to see anyone right now, but he doesn’t want to talk to anybody.

 

“I knew you’d called your dad,” Sonny says quietly. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

 

Dean looks out the window. “You had to tell the judge, right? You didn’t kick me out right away, and Dad didn’t come pick me up.”

 

Sonny looks sympathetic. “That might be true, but I know this is hard on you.”

 

It is and it isn’t, Dean thinks, because he likes it at Sonny’s, and it’s not exactly a hardship to stay with him. He likes the town, he likes helping Sonny out, he likes his school and his girlfriend.

 

What’s hard is knowing that he’s not there for Sam, but that’s exactly why his dad _can’t_ come for him. Their dad can’t risk Sam going into the system.

 

So, his dad has gone to ground, and he’s off the grid, and Dean just has to hope that his dad shows up when he turns 18 and it’s safe.

 

“I’ve got a good place to stay,” Dean offers. “I’ll be okay.”

 

“You let me know if you’re not,” Sonny insists.

 

Dean wants to ask what Sonny’s going to do if Dean’s not okay, but he figures the options run the gamut from a long drive, to loaning Dean a car so he could take Robin out, to therapy.

 

But Dean has chosen this road, and it was his fuck up that brought him here, and that forced his dad’s hand. He’s just going to have to deal with it.

 

Robin comes by their table. “Is everything okay?”

 

Dean manages a smile. “Never better.”

 

Even if he doesn’t believe it, he’ll keep on pretending like he does.

 

**New York City, Early Summer 2013**

 

The thing is, Dean doesn’t expect to be friends with Sam; he’s just grateful to know his brother doesn’t hate him anymore. All he really wants is to maybe go home for the holidays if he’s got the time off, and maybe exchange an occasional phone call without any yelling.

 

Dean isn’t some hopeless dreamer. He’s not going to quit his job with SHIELD to go on the road with Sam, and Sam isn’t going to move to New York or join SHIELD. Sam is going to keep his base in the Midwest, because it’s centrally located, and Dean’s going to be in New York for the foreseeable future.

 

Maybe if Dean hadn’t fucked up things would be different, but he’s used to living with the consequences of his actions.

 

So, he has to admit that when his phone vibrates during a briefing and he sees Sam’s name on the screen, he’s pleasantly surprised, although he’s careful not to do more than take a quick peek.

 

Steve had instituted the biweekly threat assessment briefing as a way of keeping all of the Avengers—not including Thor, who is currently in London with Jane Foster—plus any necessary SHIELD personnel, apprised of current and potential threats. Attendance is mandatory, and anyone goofing off or not paying attention usually gets glares of disapproval from Steve and Hill.

 

Not that Dean has been the subject of such attention—that would be Stark—but he knows how important it is for him to be well informed.

 

Also, he still finds Steve somewhat intimidating, and he knows better than to get on Hill’s bad side. Stark and Banner can text each other all they want during the meeting, but Dean won’t risk his job, or Hill’s ire, so he’ll have to wait until he has a break to call Sam back.

 

As soon as Hill announces a break, Dean ducks out and finds a quiet corner, away from both the bathrooms and the coffeepot, to call Sam back.

 

“Hey, Sam,” Dean says cautiously when his brother answers. “What’s up?”

 

“I was in the area, and I was wondering where that town was—you know, where you graduated from high school,” Sam replies.

 

Dean knows that Sam is trying to sound casual, and if he hadn’t spent years training to read people, he might have missed that. As it is, he remembers what Bobby had said about giving Sam enough information to go hunting for the truth if he wanted it, and Dean knows better than to think that Sam would call him just to chat.

 

“Hurleyville, New York,” Dean replies. “But hey, if you’re in the area, you could swing by. I’ve even got my own place now.”

 

He can hear Sam’s hesitation. “That’s—that’s a great offer, Dean, but I don’t think I can manage it this time around. Maybe next time I’m in the area.”

 

Dean feels bizarrely disappointed, considering he hadn’t expected much, if anything. “No, it’s cool. Whatever you’ve got time for.”

 

“Maybe next time,” Sam repeats. “I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”

 

“Yeah, me too,” Dean replies. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

 

Sam makes no promises, and Dean tucks his phone into his pocket, closing his eyes and putting his head down, trying to get his emotions under control.

 

“Agent Winchester? Dean?”

 

Dean takes a deep breath and pastes a pleasant smile on his face as he turns to face Bruce, wondering if he had followed Dean, since there’s no other reason for him to be in this abandoned stretch of hallway. “Dr. Banner. How are you?”

 

“Bruce, please,” he says, and he looks honestly concerned. “Are you okay?”

 

Dean shrugs carelessly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

Bruce raises an eyebrow, and Dean can see the leashed anger in his eyes. “You know, considering that I’ve had your blood all over my hands, and I have some experience with strong emotions… You don’t have to tell me anything, but do me the courtesy of being honest.”

 

Dean makes a note—Bruce definitely does _not_ like people lying to him. “Family, you know?”

 

Bruce’s expression turns sympathetic. “Is this the family you were visiting on leave?”

 

Dean leans against the wall. “Do people just tell you things because you ask?”

 

“Sometimes even when I don’t,” Bruce replies. “Strangely enough, even when they know about the Other Guy.”

 

“You must have that kind of face,” Dean jokes. “Short story, my brother might not hate my guts anymore, but he’s not going to visit me even if he’s in the state.”

 

Bruce just looks at him for a long moment. “I could probably offer a few platitudes, but I’m going to assume you’ve thought of them already. So, instead, I’ll invite you over for dinner tonight.”

 

Dean feels a real smile curve his lips. “Are you sure you’re not good at this?”

 

“I never said I wasn’t good at it,” Bruce counters as they walk back towards the conference room. “I just don’t have the temperament.”

 

Everybody begins filing back into the room, and Bruce turns to go. “Hey, doc?” Dean says quietly. “Just so you know, I have no regrets, even if I did bleed all over you.”

 

“Why do you think you got the job?” Bruce asks. “Tony doesn’t trust SHIELD, and neither do I.”

 

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

 

Bruce smiles. “We don’t trust _SHIELD_ , Agent Winchester. We trust _people_.”

 

Dean doesn’t think he’s worthy of that faith, but maybe that’s the point, too. People are never worthy of trust, when you get right down to it. They leave, or they die, or they betray you. Sometimes all you can do is trust that someone will do their best not to do any of those things, that they’ll protect you.

 

“I’ll come for dinner,” Dean promises.

 

Bruce nods. “Good. I’m cooking.”

 

Dean isn’t quite sure whether that’s supposed to be a threat or a promise.

 

~~~~~

 

After the briefing, Dean has physical therapy, which he’s nearly done with. Right now, it’s more a matter of building his strength back up after he’d spent so long in a sling.

 

“One more visit, Agent Winchester,” Singh announces at the end of the visit. “And then you’ll be done.”

 

Dean smiles ruefully. “At least until the next time I get shot, right?”

 

“Perhaps try to avoid that in the future,” Singh replies. “At least for a few years.”

 

“I’ll try,” Dean replies.

 

To celebrate, he spends some time on the range, shooting with both his left and right hands, a trick he’d picked up when he was still Spec Ops, after injuring his right arm in the field and wishing like hell he were as accurate with his non-dominant hand. These days, he’s damn good with both.

 

After that, he gets cleaned up, pulls on some casual clothes, and heads out, running into Natasha in the lobby of HQ.

 

“Did Bruce invite you for dinner, too?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.

 

Dean shrugs, falling into step next to her as they head out the door. “He did. Want to be my date?”

 

“Do I look like I have trouble getting a date?” Natasha asks.

 

Dean gives her a slow, appreciative look up and down. “No, but you don’t seem to have company tonight.”

 

“Then perhaps you should come to my place after dinner,” Natasha suggests.

 

Dean’s not sure whether that’s a trap, but she’s never gone so far with him before. Usually, Natasha completely ignores his flirting.

 

She might catch him flat footed, but he recovers quickly. “You know I don’t drink coffee that late,” Dean replies with a smirk.

 

“I’m not interested in coffee,” Natasha replies.

 

“Then I think I can probably satisfy you,” Dean says.

 

She gives him a skeptical look, but Dean can tell that she’s holding back a smile. “We’ll see.”

 

“Oh, come on,” Dean cajoles her. “I know you. Someone told you I was good in the sack.”

 

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Natasha replies, and now the smile breaks out. “But I have it on good authority that you do not take sex seriously.”

 

Dean mimes a stab in the heart. “Are you kidding? I take sex _very_ seriously. I _love_ sex. It’s relationships I avoid.”

 

“How lucky for you, since I prefer my sex with no strings attached,” Natasha replies.

 

Dean gives her a look that’s convinced plenty of women to enjoy a roll in the hay. “I’d say I’m very lucky.”

 

There’s a moment where Dean almost thinks she’s flustered, but it’s only a split second. “As long as we’re clear on that,” she says.

 

Considering that Dean’s been flirting with her for seven years now, and that he thinks Natasha is one of the most impressive people he’s ever met, he knows just how lucky he is.

 

He thinks it’s going to be a good night.

 

Dean thinks about suggesting not riding up in the elevator together, but he’s probably being a little too paranoid.

 

The problem is that a relationship between people on the same team at SHIELD requires a hell of a lot of paperwork, especially when it’s a handler and asset.

 

And no, that doesn’t totally apply to Dean and Natasha, since there’s a difference between handler and liaison, but there’s still paperwork. Dean doesn’t mind breaking the rules, but he also likes to either have a really good reason or a way to cover his ass.

 

Under the circumstances, he thinks he can legitimately claim that they’re not _in_ a relationship. It’s just a casual exchange between friends who have known each other for years.

 

Still, he’s careful not to stick too close to Natasha that night. The evening is convivial, with Tony breaking out the good alcohol and Bruce cooking a huge vat of some kind of meat sauce with pasta.

 

“What is that?” Dean asks when he first smells it.

 

Bruce grins over his shoulder. “Bolognese sauce. It’s nothing special.”

 

“Don’t let the doc fool you, Winchester,” Barton says. “He’s a fantastic cook.”

 

“Self defense,” Bruce inserts. “It was cheaper to cook than it was to eat out, and I didn’t have a lot of money.”

 

Dean grins. “Dude, I have some recipes for you. I don’t often get a chance to cook, but—”

 

Barton groans. “Aw, man. There you go!”

 

“I hereby nominate Winchester to cook the next team dinner,” Stark says loudly.

 

“Seconded,” Steve says with a grin.

 

Natasha smiles when she says, “Motion carries.”

 

Dean blinks. “You are all terrible people.”

 

“We like to eat,” Stark replies. “And while I’m happy to buy dinner, _some_ people like eating a homemade meal.”

 

“You know that eating out all the time isn’t good for you,” Bruce says.

 

Stark taps his chest. “My ticker is just fine.”

 

Bruce shakes his head. “You know, I’d be worried if he didn’t drink those noxious cleansing shakes half the time.”

 

“They’re delicious!” Stark protests. “You’re just irrationally prejudiced.”

 

“Dean, come help me, since I’m pretty sure I can trust you not to set the kitchen on fire,” Bruce says, ignoring Stark. Dean gets the feeling that he does that a lot. “And for the record, I’ve had to eat a lot of strange things. I’m not going to drink sludge if I don’t have to.”

 

Dean hides a smile, appreciating the banter. The truth is, he likes these people, and he’d like them even if they weren’t Avengers. Spending time with them reminds Dean of being with his old unit, back before SHIELD, when they’d been alive.

 

He remembers dinners they’d had together when they’d been back stateside—Scooter and his wife, Miller and his wife and kids, Cam and his best friend.

 

Of course, they’d all known that Morse had been Cam’s boyfriend, but they’d been a family, and they kept each other’s secrets, even to the grave.

 

Dean had made sure Morse got Cam’s collection of spy novels he liked so much, and a few of his other personal effects. Morse had been grateful, and that had made Dean uncomfortable, considering he was family.

 

That had been one of the things Dean had appreciated about SHIELD—as long as you could do the job, and it was consensual, SHIELD didn’t give a flying fuck who you boned. Dean could have an orgy every weekend, and nobody would care, as long as he took care of business.

 

Dean hasn’t spoken to the guys’ families in years. He’s kept an eye on everybody—social media makes that pretty easy—but it had been easier to maintain radio silence and keep his distance. He couldn’t tell them what he’d been doing, and he thinks it might have been easier for them, too.

 

As the last man standing, he hadn’t wanted to constantly remind them that he’d survived and their loved ones hadn’t.

 

There’s something comforting about knowing that he’s far more likely to be killed than the Avengers.

 

Dean finishes up the salad, and then slices the bread while Bruce brushes each slice with a mixture of melted butter and garlic.

 

“Has your brother called you back?” Bruce asks quietly while Steve and Tony argue over what movie they’re going to watch.

 

Dean shakes his head. “I figure he’s doing his research. It’s even odds whether he’ll talk to me again once he starts digging.”

 

“I wish I could offer you some advice,” Bruce admits. “I don’t have the best relationship with my family—those who are still alive, that is.”

 

Dean shrugs. “It’s stupid to even get my hopes up. We didn’t talk for years.”

 

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to have a decent relationship with your brother,” Bruce counters. “Look, I’m not offering advice or anything else, but there’s a farmers market on Saturday morning. If you need to get out of your head for a while, give me a call.”

 

Dean can’t help the smile that forms. The fact that he can cook isn’t widely known, and he doesn’t get the chance often, since it’s not all that much fun cooking for one, but farmers markets remind him of the time he’d spent overseas, bartering for food with the locals.

 

“How did you know?” he asks.

 

Bruce smiles. “It’s where I feel most at home some days.”

 

“I might take you up on that,” Dean replies.

 

“It’s up to you,” Bruce says.

 

They eat dinner family-style, passing around bowls of pasta and salad and loaves of bread wrapped in foil. Barton snags the last piece of garlic bread from under Steve’s nose, and Steve eats the last of the pasta in retaliation.

 

Steve drags Barton into the kitchen to clean up afterward, and Tony and Bruce are talking about something science-related, and Natasha grabs Dean’s arm. “Let’s go.”

 

Dean looks around and realizes that now is the best time to leave without any fuss. “I have to go,” he calls. “Thanks for dinner, see you all soon!”

 

Natasha rolls her eyes once they’re in the elevator. “Could you be more obvious?”

 

“They’re going to know we left at the same time,” Dean counters. “And I’m pretty sure none of them will believe I’m actually going home with you.”

 

Natasha smiles. “True enough.”

 

Dean wants to test the boundaries, so he moves a little closer, waiting for any sign that she’s not interested. When she just raises an eyebrow in challenge, Dean threads his fingers through her hair, cupping the back of her head, and pressing his lips to hers.

 

He starts cautiously—because she could kill him with one hand tied behind her back—but when she pushes back, shoving him against the elevator wall, Dean deepens the kiss.

 

Dean is hard as a fucking rock by the time she takes a step back, looking like a cat who’s just eaten the canary.

 

“That’s a good start,” Natasha says.

 

**SHIELD Academy, February 2007**

 

The nice thing about the SHIELD training academy is that there are people from all walks of life and all ages. There are some guys from Spec Ops who have seen combat, others from one of the other agencies—CIA, FBI, NSA, etc.—some people straight out of college.

 

SHIELD takes all kinds, and over the course of the weeks at the Academy, he realizes that SHIELD only takes the best. There are people who drop out, and people who try to make friends with him, and people who are so fucking young that Dean doesn’t even want to look at them.

 

He feels old compared to so many of them. He connects with the other Spec Ops guys to a certain extent—a couple of SEALS, a Ranger, and a few Green Berets—but he doesn’t make friends. Dean _had_ friends, and they’re all dead. He’s not interested in getting close to anybody else.

 

Dean keeps things civil and professional, and he goes out for drinks a few times, but he keeps his past quiet.

 

Scooter had known all about Dean’s history, and had even gone on a hunt with him once, although that had mostly been by accident. He’d known about Dean’s dad, and Sam, and Sonny, and everything.

 

Dean honestly can’t imagine ever letting anybody that close again.

 

The Academy isn’t a one-size fits all training. Everybody gets hand-to-hand and weapons training, plus basic classes in infiltration, disguise, and exfiltration. There are also language classes, pilot training for those who have the aptitude, advanced demolition and engineering, and a few other things.

 

He skates through a lot of his classes and quickly gets moved up to the advanced sniper training and hand-to-hand. Dean is still waiting to hear if he’s going to be able to fly the jet, but he’s been told that it’s likely.

 

“Hello, newbies,” the trainer calls out. “I’m Agent Barton, and I’m going to teach you everything you need to know about sniping. Before anyone asks, yes, I’m also known as Hawkeye, and no, I haven’t missed yet. Any other questions?”

 

Barton is average height and a little stocky, with broad shoulders and heavily muscled arms. Dean knows snipers, and you don’t get that kind of build with a rifle, so he’s not all that surprised when Barton pulls out a recursive bow. “This is my weapon of choice, and no, I’m not going to teach you to use it. If you really want to learn, you’ll do it on your own time. I am here to ensure you have the essential skills to get in, take out your target, and get out with no one the wiser.”

 

Dean’s an excellent marksman—he had to be to get into Spec Ops in the first place—and he’s learned plenty of infiltration skills over the years, but Barton is an excellent teacher. He’s full of tips and tricks, little things that come only through experience.

 

“Winchester, stay behind,” Barton calls when class lets out.

 

Dean falls back and lets the others leave, wondering why Barton would need to talk to him; he didn’t think he’d screwed anything up too badly, although he’d hung back slightly.

 

 “Coulson told me to look out for you,” Barton explains. “He was impressed. So was Natasha.”

 

Dean is a little surprised. “Agent Romanoff? I got the feeling she was annoyed.”

 

“Tasha can be annoyed and impressed at the same time,” Barton replies with a grin. “Look, I just wanted to say that you’re in.”

 

“In what?” Dean asks.

 

“Pilot training,” Barton replies. “Coulson recommended you himself.”

 

Dean looks away. “What’s his deal?”

 

Barton almost looks sympathetic. “Coulson is known to have an eye for talent. He brought me in, and he seemed to think I’d do okay, even though he had no reason to believe I’d be any good, or that I’d stick around.”

 

Dean wants to ask if Barton knows he was the last one left alive from his unit. He might be good with his hands, but his only skill seems to be survival, and leaving everybody behind.

 

He’s really good at that.

 

“Survival is its own skill,” Barton says quietly, as though reading Dean’s mind, and maybe he just knows enough about Dean’s story to make an educated guess. “Even if it’s the one you wish you didn’t have.”

 

“Yeah, well, we all have our crosses to bear, right?” Dean counters.

 

Barton claps him on the shoulder. “When you’re finished at the Academy, we’ll go out for a drink. It’ll be fun.”

 

Dean doesn’t know how to decline, and maybe he shouldn’t. Barton is a higher-ranking agent, and he is really good at what he does. Dean could probably learn a few things.

 

“Yeah, sure, why not?” Dean says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sir.”

 

They never do get that drink, though. Barton gets called away on a mission before he can finish teaching the class and is replaced by another agent, and Dean starts pilot training. And, while Dean might not make friends at the Academy, he graduates with high marks and is immediately sent on a mission to take down a cartel trafficking drugs and humans.

 

That mission is enough to hook him, and to convince Dean that he’s made the right choice, especially when he sees the faces of the girls and boys he’d saved. No matter how many missions go wrong after that, no matter how many wrong calls get made, Dean remembers that moment of triumph, and it’s enough to see him through a lot of long, lonely nights.

 

**New York City, Early Summer 2013**

 

Natasha’s apartment is sparsely furnished and decorated, and Dean recognizes the place of a person who’s rarely there.

 

“Nice place,” Dean says, following her inside.

 

“It serves my purposes,” Natasha replies. “The important thing is that there’s a bed.”

 

Dean smirks. “If that’s how you want to roll. Walls, chairs, tables, couches—I can make it all work.”

 

Natasha grabs his jacket and pulls him toward a hallway. “Maybe later, if you impress me sufficiently.”

 

“You know, I’m beginning to get the feeling that this is an audition,” Dean jokes, but the look that Natasha gives him causes him to raise his eyebrows. “Okay, then. Good thing I always bring my A game.”

 

The bedroom is just as sparsely furnished as the rest of the apartment, but there’s a queen-size bed and a nightstand with a lamp, which Natasha switches on.

 

Dean pulls her in for another kiss, letting his hands wander up and down her back, cupping her ass. She makes an encouraging noise, and Dean pushes up the hem of her t-shirt, feeling warm, bare skin, and Natasha returns the favor.

 

He takes his time undressing her, wanting to make this last, and make it good. Maybe he’ll only get one shot at this, so he’s going to make it count.

 

Natasha pulls Dean’s t-shirt off and unbuttons his fly. “I think you can move a little faster than that,” she says.

 

“Your wish is my command,” Dean replies and finishes undressing her before pulling off the rest of his clothes.

 

He goes down on her, because he’s _really_ good at it, and he’s never had any complaints in the past, not since he’d learned on Robin. Judging by the way Natasha pulls his hair, and the noises she makes, he’s doing something right.

 

She moans as she comes, and her thighs squeeze Dean’s head just hard enough to be a little painful.

 

Dean sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth. “You up for round two?”

 

“Your reputation is well-deserved,” Natasha says.

 

Dean grins. “Oh, you ain’t seen nothing yet. I’m just getting started.”

 

He thinks it’s probably a good sign that she doesn’t kick him out after he makes her come a couple of more times—once with his mouth and fingers, and a third time while he’s fucking her hard.

 

He’s had a bit of a dry spell recently, and breaking the fast with Natasha is pretty much a dream come true.

 

“You can stay the night if you want,” Natasha offers.

 

Dean grins, lazy and fucked out. “Thanks. Not sure I’m up for moving just yet.”

 

“I think there’s coffee,” Natasha replies.

 

Dean lifts a shoulder. “If there’s not, I’ll go out and get some.”

 

Natasha smiles. “We’re off tomorrow.”

 

“Does that mean I passed?” Dean teases.

 

“You’ll do,” Natasha replies.

 

Dean drops off soon after, not minding being in a strange bed, or having Natasha next to him, although they don’t touch. Dean can’t say he’s surprised or disappointed; he’s not much of a cuddler either, at least not after sex.

 

He’s dreaming about being in high school and looking for his locker but not finding it when he hears a phone ringing. At first, it seems like part of his dream, and then someone shakes him awake.

 

“What?” Dean mutters.

 

“Answer your phone,” Natasha orders. “It’s irritating.”

 

Dean rolls out of bed and finds his pants, the phone ringing in the pocket. He pads out of the bedroom naked, not wanting to annoy Natasha more than he has already, and he quickly answers without checking the caller ID. “Winchester.”

 

“When were you going to tell me?” Sam demands.

 

Dean suddenly wishes he’d pulled his pants on at least. “Tell you about what?”

 

“They had a hearing, Dean, to determine fitness,” Sam says, his voice rising. “Dad didn’t show up. Did he know about it?”

 

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “He knew. I called to warn him.”

 

“Then he just _left_ you there,” Sam says, both anger and anguish in his voice.

 

“He was protecting you,” Dean replies heavily. “Look, Sam, I don’t really want to talk about this right now. It’s the middle of the night, and I’m with a friend.”

 

“When were you going to tell me?” Sam demands.

 

Dean sighs. “The day after never. I fucked up, and Dad did what he had to do to protect you. End of story.”

 

Sam makes a sound. “He told me you’d left.”

 

“I might as well have done,” Dean replies.

 

“You _jerk_ ,” Sam snaps, and then he hangs up.

 

Dean stares at his phone. “Well, so much for him not hating me.”

 

“Dean?” Natasha calls. “Did you get a call out?”

 

Dean goes back into the bedroom. “No, it was just my brother.” He sighs. “Look, as much as I’d love to stick around, I’m probably not going to sleep again tonight.”

 

Natasha gives him a long look. “Would you rather be alone, or would you rather be distracted?”

 

“You offering?” Dean asks, because he’s suddenly thinking that a distraction might be preferable.

 

“I think I might still owe you a couple,” Natasha replies.

 

If anybody could take his mind off Sam’s call, she could probably do it.

 

**Fort Benning, Georgia, Winter 2004**

 

“God, were we ever this young?” Dean asks as he pries the cap off a bottle of beer, lounging on the couch in the base quarters he’s currently sharing with Scooter.

 

Scooter laughs. “Yeah, and not that long ago either, bro. It’s only been—what? Five years?”

 

“More like seven,” Dean replies, taking a long drink. He’s beginning to wonder why they’d agreed to put the new recruits through their paces. “These kids are so fucking green.”

 

Scooter laughs. “So were we, and we got the shine rubbed off quick enough. What are you going to do this weekend?”

 

Dean shrugs. “Fuck if I know. You going to see your girlfriend?”

 

“She’s visiting her mom,” Scooter replies. “If you don’t have anything else, maybe you should come shopping with me.”

 

Dean frowns, having no idea what Scooter would want his help shopping _for_ , and then he gets it. “You’re actually going to do it?”

 

“Miller’s married, Cam might as well be,” Scooter replies. “You and me are the last holdouts.”

 

Dean has absolutely no intention of settling down. A lot of guys are married, and some of them even make it work, but he prefers to keep things casual. “I thought you were going to be a bachelor forever,” Dean says.

 

Scooter shrugs, spinning around in the desk chair. “You just haven’t met the right girl yet, that’s all. Your time is coming.”

 

“You watch,” Dean replies. “I’ll be the last bachelor standing—assuming Amy even says yes.”

 

Scooter runs a hand down his chest. “And miss all of this? She’s smarter than that.”

 

Dean snorts. “You know, I really thought she was.”

 

“So, when she says yes,” Scooter begins.

 

“Don’t get cocky, man,” Dean interrupts.

 

Scooter continues, raising his voice. “ _When_ she says yes, will you be my best man?”

 

“I still think you’re putting the cart before the horse,” Dean says, “but yeah, of course. You don’t even have to ask.”

 

Scooter grins at him. “Pretty presumptuous of you, isn’t it?”

 

Dean laughs. “Yeah, man, whatever.” He raises his beer. “To the end of your bachelor days. May Amy never come to her senses.”

 

“Fuck off,” Scooter says, but he laughs as he taps his bottle against Dean’s.

 

~~~~~

 

They’re in the third jewelry store when Dean feels the temperature drop and sees the lights flicker. Scooter shivers next to him. “What the hell?” he asks. “Did it just get cold in here?”

 

“Sorry about that, sir,” Missy, the clerk, says. “I don’t know what’s going on with our thermostat. It keeps getting cold on and off.”

 

“Are there any other weird happenings?” Dean asks, trying to sound casual.

 

Scooter gives him a strange look. “Like what?”

 

Dean shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m pretty handy, though.” He winks at Missy, who’s a pretty woman in her early twenties.

 

She laughs. “Nothing too major. I keep telling the owner he should have the electrician come in to check on the wiring, but he insists that it’s no big deal. And you know, it’s an old building. They always have strange noises.”

 

That seems to set Scooter’s mind at ease, but Dean is beginning to think that they might have a ghost. He’s not in the hunting business anymore, but hauntings can turn dangerous, even deadly. “You haven’t had any deaths around here, have you?”

 

Now, both Scooter and the clerk are staring at him. “Deaths?” Missy asks faintly.

 

“I love ghost stories, don’t you?” Dean asks, giving her his most charming smile. “I’m always looking for a good one.”

 

Missy hesitates. “I don’t know. Mr. Bryant just moved into this space a couple of years ago. I think it might have been a clothing store or something before.”

 

Dean hitches a shoulder. “It’s probably just a faulty thermostat. You know how old buildings are. Scooter, you see anything Amy would like yet?”

 

Scooter’s expression suggests he knows that Dean is changing the subject, and he’s going to bring it up later. “She kind of likes more of an old fashioned look.”

 

Missy beams at them. “I have just the thing.”

 

Missy is a good salesperson, and she manages to steer Scooter to a ring in gold and diamonds. Dean doesn’t add much, other than to agree that Amy will probably like it. He has no experience buying jewelry.

 

Well, he’d bought a necklace for Robin for their senior prom, and she’d seemed to like it, but he hasn’t had a relationship that lasted more than a weekend since.

 

Scooter walks out of the store with the ring in a box in his pocket, and Dean has Missy’s number. “You dog,” Scooter mutters.

 

Dean grins. “Hey, man, I got game.”

 

“You got something,” Scooter replies. “What the hell was that about? Ghost stories? You hate that shit.”

 

Dean pats the pocket with Missy’s number. “I love that shit. You take a girl to a scary movie, and she’s half in your lap by the end of it.”

 

“Come on,” Scooter says. “Don’t give me that line, Dean, not after what we’ve been through. We don’t lie to each other.”

 

Dean sighs. They _don’t_ lie to each other, and Scooter knows more than just about anybody else other than Sonny. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

 

“Is this about what your dad does for a living?” Scooter asks. “Ghost hunting?”

 

Dean shrugs. “It’s probably just my imagination. Don’t worry about it.”

 

“You’re going to check it out, though,” Scooter says, thumping Dean in the chest. “I know you, Dean. You’ve got that look in your eye.”

 

“Scoot—”

 

“I’m going with you,” Scooter insists. “Someone has to watch your back.”

 

Dean shakes his head. “You don’t have to do that.”

 

“Amy’s out of town, and you came shopping with me,” Scooter replies. “Besides, I want to see this for myself.”

 

“You don’t believe any of this,” Dean replies. “And no, you don’t want to see it.”

 

Scooter claps Dean on the shoulder. “Shut up. We’re doing this.”

 

He changes his tune a few hours later when they’re looking up old newspaper articles, trying to find any mention of a violent death that occurred at that address. It had been a clothing boutique before it was a jewelry store, and before that had been an independent bookstore. The fact that the store has gone through so many owners and so many changes in the last ten years is further evidence that something might be going on.

 

“When you talked about your childhood, I thought it was all tramping through the woods and shit,” Scooter says, rubbing his eyes. “Not this.”

 

“Research is a big part of the job,” Dean says absently, skimming through yet another article. “Right now, there are all the signs of a ghost, but no proof without spending more time there.”

 

“What kind of proof are we going to find here?” Scooter asks.

 

“A violent death is a pretty good indicator that we might be looking at a ghost, and not just an old building,” Dean replies absently. “And if we know that much, we can figure out how to banish it.”

 

“And how are we going to do that?” Scooter asks. “You aren’t going to have to kill anybody, are you? Because while I’m down with helping you hide a body, I’m going to need a little more to go on than a faulty thermostat.”

 

Dean grins. “No, but I might need your help digging up a body.” He straightens. “I think I might have something.”

 

“Finally!” Scooter exclaims. “What have you got?”

 

Dean winces. “Even before it was a bookstore, it was a consignment shop. That got shut down when the woman who owned the place was brutally beaten to death in the store by her ex-husband.”

 

Scooter scowls. “Fucker. What happened to him?”

 

“Shot himself before the police could arrest him, in the same location,” Dean says. “Which means it could be her or him.”

 

“How do we find out?” Scooter asks.

 

Dean sighs. “We have to get a glimpse of the ghost.”

 

“Okay, please tell me that the next words out of your mouth are not ‘and we have to break in,’” Scooter says. “Because dude, if we get caught—”

 

“I know,” Dean says, rubbing his eyes, and thinking hard. His dad would have broken in without thinking twice about it, but Dean has a lot to lose, and he’s not going to risk his career or Scooter’s over a ghost that might not ever hurt anybody. “I’m going to call Missy.”

 

“She’s not going to give you an after-hours tour,” Scooter replies.

 

Dean smirks. “No, but they close early on Sunday, and maybe she’ll let me pick her up. If I show up before close, I might be able to poke around.”

 

“But you’ll let me tag along?” Scooter presses.

 

“Well, I’m certainly not going to bring Missy with me to dig up a corpse.” Dean yawns. “Think I’ll get some shuteye now, though.”

 

He calls Missy before he goes to bed that night, though, and leaves a message. “Hey, it’s Dean Winchester. I don’t know if you’re free tomorrow, but it’s my last day off for a while, and I thought you might want to grab dinner.”

 

If he doesn’t get answers tomorrow, he’ll have to rethink his strategy, because they’re back to putting in long hours on Monday, and Dean likes his job too much to half-ass it. The kids they’re training deserve better than that.

 

~~~~~

 

Missy agrees to go out with him, of course, because Dean still has game, and there are times when the Special Forces thing can really work for him. Not that he comes right out and says it, but she knows he’s a trainer, and anybody from Fort Benning can figure out what that means.

 

He shows up twenty minutes early, and Missy clearly vacillates on what to do with him. “Do you have a break room?” Dean asks. “I could just wait there.”

 

Missy hesitates. “I don’t know. I could get into trouble. No one else is supposed to be back there.”

 

“I promise, I’ll be quiet as a mouse, and I won’t touch anything,” Dean says.

 

Missy looks around. “Well, there’s no one else here. I guess that would be okay.”

 

Dean prowls the break room once Missy leaves him there, and he pulls out his makeshift EMF reader, grinning as it starts to whir. “Come to papa.”

 

From what he’d been able to find out from the news reports, the woman had been killed in the storeroom, which is close to where the break room is now.

 

“Come on,” he mutters. “Don’t you want to show yourself to someone who believes in you? This might be the only chance you get.”

 

Nothing happens, other than the EMF meter going crazy, and Dean frowns. He’s not sure he can’t take the chance at poking around, but he might not have a choice.

 

Deciding to take a risk, he says, “Dude, you know your wife was hot, right? It’s no wonder she had guys banging down her door.”

 

He probably should have seen it coming, but the only warning he gets is a sudden temperature drop, and then he gets thrown across the room.

 

“Dean!” Missy calls, running into the room.

 

Dean’s a little dazed, but he hears her scream, and scrambles to his feet, seeing the flickering figure of a man with a shotgun in his hands. The ghost advances on Missy and Dean lunges for her, pushing her out of the room.

 

He’s been out of the game too long, and he hadn’t been able bring an effective weapon.

 

“Shit,” Dean mutters. “How much more do you have to do around here?”

 

“I’m pretty much done,” she says faintly. “What was that?”

 

“Ghost,” Dean explains succinctly. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll take you home.”

 

Missy swallows. “But—are you okay?”

 

“He just threw me across the room,” Dean says. “I’ve had worse.” He has a thought. “Look, I think I can get rid of it, but I need to call my buddy. Do you think you can let him in?”

 

Missy frowns. “I don’t know. I could get into trouble, but I really don’t want to come back to work with _that_ here.”

 

“Do you like your job?” Dean asks.

 

Missy nods.

 

“Then let us make things safe for you,” Dean replies.

 

Missy frowns. “I thought you guys said you were Special Forces.”

 

“I grew up doing this,” Dean replies. “Took out my first ghost when I was still in grade school. Trust me.”

 

Missy nods slowly. “Okay, I guess.”

 

Scooter had been waiting by the phone, because he picks up immediately, and he shows up in fifteen minutes, carrying a duffel bag with tire irons and rock salt.

 

“What have we got?” Scooter asks, sounding like he deals with ghosts all the time.

 

“I got him to come out in the break room,” Dean says. “I say we try to trap him in there while we do that thing.”

 

Scooter hefts the bag. “Let’s do it, then.”

 

He’s pretty sure Scooter won’t panic, because they’ve faced much worse than one little ghost, and he’s not disappointed. They manage to line most of the room with salt, and then Dean says, “Dude, did you see his wife? So fucking hot.”

 

Scooter gives him a look. “Hey, I’m taken.”

 

“Doesn’t mean you’ve gone blind,” Dean replies, ending the line of salt just before it joins up with Scooter’s. “Come on, you saw the pictures.”

 

“Okay, total fox,” Scooter agrees. “No wonder she had guys lining up to bang her.”

 

The temperature drops, and Scooter’s eyes get very wide as he spots the ghost. “Holy shit, Winchester. You weren’t fucking around.”

 

“I never fuck around about this kind of thing,” Dean says, pushing Scooter out the door of the break room and closing the salt line.

 

The ghost charges them and then fades out when he hits the line.

 

“How do we get rid of it?” Scooter asks. He sounds breathless, but otherwise calm.

 

“Salt and burn the bones,” Dean says. “Assuming it isn’t tied to some object, that should do it.”

 

“What if it’s tied to an object?” Scooter objects.

 

Dean shrugs. “Fuck if I know. We’ll have to figure it out, I guess. Let’s get going.”

 

Missy is too shaken to want to go out to dinner, which is a good thing. They make sure she gets back to her car safely, and then they get into Dean’s car.

 

“We have to come back for my truck,” Scooter says.

 

“We’ll swing by on our way back to base.” Dean clutches the steering wheel. “So, you’re okay with this?”

 

Scooter’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah. I guess. I mean, I kind of thought your stories were an exaggeration, like you didn’t want to admit what happened.”

 

“What did you think really happened?” Dean asks.

 

“Your dad was a fucking nutcase who abandoned you to avoid losing custody of your brother, too?” Scooter suggests. “I thought it was all in his head, and you believed him because he was your dad.”

 

Dean stares out into the darkness, keeping a sharp eye out for the turnoff to the cemetery where Miles Eberly, their ghost, is buried. “My dad had reasons for being paranoid,” Dean finally says. “He did the best he could.”

 

“Just because he had reasons doesn’t mean he didn’t abandon you,” Scooter says. “And don’t say it, man. You and me, we’re brothers from another mother.”

 

“I wouldn’t have left my brother with him if I thought he was in danger,” Dean says quietly.

 

Scooter is quiet. “I know that, Dean. But he didn’t have to be a danger to you or your brother to be a fucking awful father.”

 

Dean thinks about the times he’s spent at Scooter’s parents’ place—mother and father, siblings, grandparents, the whole nine yards. They’re all noisy and boisterous and kind, and they’d accepted Dean as one of their own. There’s no comparison to long hours in the Impala with his dad and Sam, weeks at a time in shitty motel rooms and apartments, the world limited to just the three of them.

 

“He did the best he could with what he had,” Dean finally says. “I guess that’s all any of us can do.”

 

Scooter nods. “That’s all I’m going to say about that, but I have to say I’m not sorry you got out and wound up here.”

 

Dean reaches out and grips the back of Scooter’s neck. “Me neither, Lawrence.”

 

“Oh, fuck off,” Scooter complains. “I told you not to use my first name.”

 

Dean just laughs.

 

That night, they dig up the bones and salt and burn them, and then they fill the grave back in. Scooter is the last person Dean tells his full story, and he’s dead two years later, and with his death, Dean figures he loses any chance he had at having a family, even if it’s vicarious.

 

But then, Dean’s always been really good at losing his family.

 

**New York City, Summer 2013**

 

Dean’s not exactly surprised when Sam doesn’t call him back right away. He’s honestly not sure Sam will try to contact him again, not after how their last conversation had gone. It’s probably a good thing that he’s too busy over the next couple of weeks to give it more than a passing thought, first with meeting Thor, then with a resurrection, and then with an alien invasion.

 

Well, Natasha helps distract him, too.

 

“We’re not dating, right?” Dean asks, straightening his tie. “Because this is the third night in a row we’ve done this.”

 

“And the next time I get an overseas assignment and am gone for months, I’ll have the memories to keep me warm at night,” Natasha deadpans as she buttons her shirt.

 

Dean has no idea if she’s being serious or not, but he can’t say he minds the idea of her getting herself off to memories of them fucking. “That’s a nice thought,” he admits. “The distraction is appreciated, anyway.”

 

“There are advantages to not having family,” Natasha admits softly.

 

Dean gives her a sharp look. “Is that what you call it? Because the other Avengers might argue.”

 

Natasha shrugs. “There’s a difference between the family you choose, and that which you’re born into.”

 

“I guess there is,” Dean agrees, thinking of Bobby, who has been the only constant in his life over the last thirty-odd years, and Sonny, who still keeps in touch.

 

Not that he blames Sam for his reaction. Finding out you’d been lied to for the last twenty years is bound to shake anybody up.

 

And honestly, Dean’s been living without his brother for a long time now. It’s like the ache from a limb he’d lost, painful, but something he’s learned to work around.

 

Both their phones ring at the same time, Dean’s sounding like a red alert klaxon.

 

“Really?” Natasha asks, glancing at her screen.

 

“Gets my attention,” Dean replies. “And yeah. That way I know which calls I can’t ignore.”

 

Natasha rolls her eyes, but Dean knows that she’s secretly amused. “I’m assuming that’s an alert for the Avengers.”

 

“Yeah, yours?”

 

“Solo mission,” she replies. “I might be gone for a while.”

 

Dean knows that means he might not see her for days, or weeks, or even months—which is why it’s probably a very good thing that neither of them are all that interested in anything other than a friends-with-benefits arrangement.

 

“Good luck,” Dean replies.

 

She smiles. “I don’t need luck.”

 

“One for the road?” Dean offers, because they’re not in a relationship, and that kind of casual affection is foreign to them, but he still wants to offer.

 

Also, he likes kissing her, and if he’s going into an emergency situation, he wouldn’t mind a kiss before he goes.

 

“Hm,” Natasha replies, but then she grabs Dean’s tie and pulls him close, giving him a brief kiss, although with plenty of heat behind it. “Try to stay in one piece.”

 

“You, too,” Dean replies.

 

The alert on his phone directs him to the Tower, and he takes the subway, which will actually be faster this time of day. When he shows up, he heads directly for the Penthouse, and is a little surprised to see Fury’s face on the large monitor.

 

“Who’s there?” Fury demands as the elevator doors open.

 

Stark glances over his shoulder. “Agent Winchester. Nice of you to join us.”

 

“I got here as quick as I could,” Dean replies. “You know what traffic is like this time of day.”

 

“We have a problem.” Fury says. “We believe AIM is building at least one weapon of mass destruction. I’ve sent Agent Romanoff to infiltrate one of their locations in Germany to try and get some answers. We have confirmation on another location in New Mexico, though, and I need someone to go in, figure out what they’ve got, and disarm or dismantle anything there.”

 

Dean waits for Fury to give an order, and then he realizes that Fury’s waiting for _him_. Dean is the SHIELD liaison, and it’s up to him to make the decision on how to deploy the Avengers—although he has no doubt that Fury will overrule him if he thinks Dean is making a stupid decision.

 

“I’ll go with Stark and Banner,” Dean says. “We’ll put Captain Rogers and Barton on standby, and I’d like to alert Thor that he might be needed.”

 

Fury’s eyes narrow. “Your reasoning?”

 

“If our location proves to be an AIM site, Stark’s suit and Banner’s unique physiology will protect them,” Dean says. “Plus, they’re more likely to know how to disarm a weapon.”

 

“And your presence?” Stark says. “I’m not disagreeing, but I don’t think we need to put you in danger, Agent Winchester.”

 

Dean shrugs. “My specialty was demolitions, engineering, and weapons. I might not be up to your speed, but at least I know my way around a bomb.”

 

“If something goes wrong, we might not be able to protect you,” Bruce warns.

 

Dean shrugs. “Trust me, I’m used to that. It will be different having someone who actually _does_ have my back.”

 

He’s been working solo for a long time now, and he’s not exactly anxious to go back out in the field with people he cares about, but he’d known it was coming.

 

“Do it,” Fury orders. “I’m assuming I don’t need to have Barton take the Quinjet to get you there.”

 

“We’ll take the Stark Industries jet,” Stark replies. “Leave Barton and the Quinjet here in case another threat pops up.”

 

Fury raises an eyebrow.

 

Dean shrugs. He knows better than to think he can order Stark around. The best he can hope for is to wrangle him. “It’s a plan. We’ll let you know what we find, Director Fury.”

 

“I’ll send you the coordinates,” Fury replies, and then his image winks out.

 

“Better grab a change of clothes, Big Guy,” Stark says, looking at Bruce. “Just in case.”

 

Bruce sighs. “I know.”

 

“Jarvis?” Stark prompts.

 

“The jet will be waiting for you, sir,” Jarvis replies. “It appears as though Director Fury may have already alerted them that you’ll be leaving.”

 

Stark nods. “Great.” He glances at Dean. “I didn’t step on your toes, did I?”

 

“I’m your liaison, not your boss,” Dean replies. “And it was the right call. If it hadn’t been, I would have said something.”

 

Stark smiles. “You’re remarkably laid back about this sort of thing, Agent.”

 

“I know when to choose my battles,” Dean replies. “Fury doesn’t care _how_ I do my job as long as it gets done.”

 

The nice thing about a mission with Stark is being able to get a car to drive them to the airport, and then a private jet to fly them to New Mexico. AIM’s suspected base is about twenty-five miles outside of Carlsbad, and the Cavern City Air Terminal makes allowances for Stark’s private jet.

 

There’s a car waiting for them, although Stark activates the armor. “I’ll meet you two there,” he says. “You might want to try being sneaky.”

 

“Excuse me?” Dean counters. “I’m not the one in bright red and gold armor. We’ll be fine. Scope it out, and let us know what you find. _Don’t_ go in by yourself.”

 

“How are we going to do this?” Bruce asks, climbing into the passenger seat of the rental car.

 

“We’re going to hope that Stark finds a way for us to get inside without being seen,” Dean replies. “And then we’re going to sneak in, and play the rest by ear. If we can disarm, or dismantle, or whatever, then we do that.”

 

Bruce shrugs. “Well, that should be easy, then.”

 

Dean glances at him, realizing that Bruce is being sarcastic. “Should I not have included you in this?”

 

Bruce shakes his head. “No, it makes sense. Tony and I are the ones who are best suited to a job like this, and we’re less likely to get hurt than your typical SHIELD scientist.”

 

“Let’s just hope that’s not an issue,” Dean replies. “I know changing isn’t something you like to do.”

 

“It’s not the worst thing in the world,” Bruce says. “At least when I choose it.”

 

They both have an earpiece that’s linked with Tony and Jarvis, although Bruce’s won’t survive an engagement with the enemy if he has to transform. They’re still ten miles away when Tony says, “Looks deserted, guys. I’m not seeing any heat signatures, so if anyone’s here, they’re either well-hidden or not alive.”

 

Dean frowns. “That doesn’t actually make me feel any better. Wait for us, Stark. We’re not that far away.”

 

“I’ll be cautious,” Stark replies.

 

“ _Tony_ ,” Bruce says sharply. “Wait for us.”

 

“Only for you,” Stark replies expansively.

 

Dean snorts. “You know what? I’m going to let Bruce corral you. You might actually listen to him.”

 

“Oh, you know I love you, Agent Winchester,” Stark teases. “But there’s no one here, and I have a suit of armor.”

 

“That doesn’t mean you’re invulnerable,” Dean replies with a glance at Bruce. “Do you know what Fury will say to me if you get yourself killed? We’re nearly there.”

 

Stark stands out in front of the warehouse, clearly not lying low, but at least he hasn’t entered yet. Dean figures that’s probably about as much as he can hope for under the circumstances.

 

“Where can I be of most use?” Dean asks them.

 

“You’d better stick with Tony,” Bruce replies. “If something goes wrong, I can’t guarantee the Other Guy won’t treat you as a threat.”

 

“Let’s go, Winchester,” Stark says. “We’ll take the eastern side of the building.”

 

The building looks to be an abandoned pharmaceutical factory that’s been retrofitted. The front door opens to a long corridor with doors on either side, and another hallway stretching out in front of them, leading to what Dean thinks is the factory floor.

 

Dean follows Stark through the hallway straight ahead while Bruce goes right. The hallway does open out onto the factory floor, and he whistles when he catches sight of the crates. “Well, fuck.”

 

“I can’t believe this,” Stark says, flipping up his faceplate. “I thought I’d gotten these off the market!”

 

There are a few dozen crates around the room, some still sealed, and others open, and most are labeled “Stark Industries.”

 

“No offense, but you had a lot of weapons out there,” Dean replies. “And I saw a lot of your weapons when I was out in the field.” He walks over to one of the open crates. “What does it mean that some of these missiles are disassembled?”

 

“Nothing good.” Stark joins him and quickly scans the crate’s contents. “None of these use nuclear material, so at least we won’t have to worry about a dirty bomb, but—”

 

“The whole world knows you built the arc reactor out of spare parts,” Dean finishes. “Which means they can probably use this stuff to build something pretty terrible.”

 

Bruce’s voice interrupts them. “Tony, get Dean out of here. Do it _now_.”

 

There’s something in Bruce’s voice that has Dean turning and running for the exit. “Hang on,” Stark orders. “And pick your feet up.”

 

Stark grabs Dean around the waist and somehow manages to fly a mostly straight line down the hallway while hanging onto Dean, who pulls his feet up to keep them from dragging on the ground.

 

Dean throws his hands up to protect his face as they crash through the front doors, and Stark doesn’t stop flying. That proves to be a good idea, because the building blows up behind them, and Dean feels the heat of the explosion on his legs, which is the most unprotected part of him.

 

Stark stops, sheltering Dean with the armor.

 

“What the fuck?” Dean asks weakly. “Bruce—”

 

“Either he proves just as invulnerable as usual, or we’re in very big trouble,” Stark says grimly, but Dean knows he’s worried.

 

The explosions behind them fade, and Stark lets him go. They both turn to face the factory as it burns hot and bright.

 

There’s another explosion, maybe as the fire reaches more of the weapons, and Dean wants to run in. He hates to think there’s nothing he can do for Bruce, although he knows Stark is right. There’s nothing they can do, and if they’ve built a bomb that could hurt the Hulk, they’re fucked.

 

Dean holds his breath until he sees a figure crash through the blazing wall, and he can hear the Hulk’s roar over the crackle of flames.

 

Hulk lumbers out, and then turns and screams at the building, as though it has really pissed him off.

 

Dean glances at Stark, who shrugs. “He’s an enormous green rage monster. He gets a little pissy.”

 

“Yeah, right,” Dean says faintly as the Hulk turns and heads towards them. “Oh, shit.”

 

“Let me handle it,” Stark says in an undertone. “Don’t run.”

 

Dean feels as though he’s rooted to the spot, and he watches as Stark just strolls right up to the Hulk, talking a mile a minute. “Hey, Big Guy. Sorry about that. And thanks for the warning. You saved Dean’s life, you know that? Maybe it was payback.”

 

Hulk hunkers down. “Not bad.”

 

“Who’s not bad?” Stark asks. “Winchester? He’s a nice guy.”

 

“Bomb,” Hulk mutters. “Stupid. Hulk not hurt.”

 

“It’s a good thing you were there, for sure,” Stark agrees. “But we need to know more about the bomb, so we kind of need Bruce back.”

 

“Puny Banner,” Hulk grunts.

 

Stark spreads his hand. “Still, he knows his way around explosives, and neither of us saw it.”

 

Hulk starts to shrink down, and Dean watches in fascination. When the reverse transformation is complete, Bruce is naked, and he gets to his feet with a supporting hand from Stark.

 

“We need to get out of here,” Bruce says. “We have a very big problem.”

 

~~~~~

 

Bruce refuses to say anything until they get back to the plane, and he doesn’t have to talk over the coms. Stark has a couple of greasy paper bags waiting for them when they get on the plane, and Dean can smell burgers and fries.

 

“Oh, thank God,” Dean says. He hadn’t eaten breakfast that morning.

 

“Help yourself,” Stark says. “I think I got enough ketchup.”

 

Bruce takes one bag and digs in, attacking the burgers with a single-mindedness that Dean’s not used to seeing from him.

 

“Bruce is always starving post-transformation,” Stark supplies. “It’s best just to let him eat.”

 

Dean takes a bite out of a bacon cheeseburger and moans. “If he’s even half as hungry as I am, I don’t blame him.”

 

Bruce gets through two burgers before he starts to speak. “They set that bomb for us, or for someone like us,” he says between bites of his fries. “There was a laser tripwire that armed it as soon as I got into the room. If it hadn’t been me, and if Tony hadn’t been able to fly you two out, there wouldn’t have been anything left.”

 

“You think they knew it would be us?” Dean asks.

 

Bruce shakes his head. “I think they knew it would be someone from SHIELD. They don’t usually send out the Avengers for this sort of thing. SHIELD has plenty of elite teams they could have sent.”

 

Stark frowns. “That means they knew SHIELD had found them, and that SHIELD would be sending someone.”

 

“I think we have to assume as much.” Bruce finishes off his third burger and licks the grease off his fingers. “That was a sophisticated weapon. _Really_ sophisticated.”

 

“Jarvis, get Director Fury on the line,” Dean says. “Tell him that SHIELD may have a breach, or a mole.”

 

“Tell him we can work on it when we get back,” Stark adds.

 

After a moment, Jarvis says, “Director Fury said to inform you that they’ve had several simultaneous attacks with multiple explosions.”

 

“Have him send all the information he has,” Stark orders. “And I need permission to root through SHIELD computers to see if someone hacked them.”

 

Dean raises his eyebrows. “You need permission for that now?”

 

Stark glares at him. “Excuse me?”

 

“I’ve read your file, dude,” Dean says, flushed on the high of flying with Iron Man, surviving an explosion, and having a full stomach. “You hack.”

 

Stark looks disgruntled. “No one says that anymore.”

 

“Except when they do,” Bruce murmurs with a smile.

 

“Director Fury says they have their own hacker working on it,” Jarvis replies.

 

Stark frowns. “His own hacker? No one is as good as me.”

 

“Oh, here we go,” Bruce mutters.

 

Dean has a feeling he knows what Bruce means. Stark is bound to take that as a personal challenge.

 

Stark wiggles his fingers. “Jarvis, I want everything you have on my tablet.”

 

“Already done, sir.”

 

Dean looks at Bruce. “Is it weird that Jarvis is in the plane, too?”

 

“Less weird than Tony talking to himself,” Bruce replies, tipping his head back. “Honestly, we’ve got two hours for Tony to do his thing before we’re back in New York. We can worry about it then.”

 

Dean’s full and tired, and he suspects that it’s going to be a while before he’ll get to sleep again, so he follows Bruce’s example and tips his head back, drifting off almost immediately.

 

~~~~~

 

Once they get back to the Tower, Stark says, “My lab.”

 

Dean’s a little surprised to see Steve, Barton, and a big blond guy waiting for them.

 

“Thor!” Stark says. “Fancy meeting you here.”

 

“I heard that one of my friends was in danger,” Thor replies, standing up from the stool he’d perched on to clasp Stark’s hand. “But it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

 

“Same here,” Stark says briefly. “Give me a moment, and I’ll pull up the data.”

 

Bruce shakes Thor’s hand, too. “Good to see you, Thor. This is our new SHIELD liaison, Agent Dean Winchester.”

 

Dean has to look up to meet Thor’s eyes, which is unusual for him. “Nice to meet you.”

 

“Steve and Clint have told me many good things about you,” Thor says.

 

Dean blinks, glancing at the others. “Thanks.”

 

“Nothing but the truth,” Barton says easily.

 

“Jarvis, light up the map,” Stark orders.

 

A holographic map appears in the center of the lab with a number of dots lit a little brighter. “These are the locations of the explosions.”

 

Dean frowns. “One of those locations is in Germany, where Natasha was going.”

 

“She wouldn’t have been there yet,” Barton says quietly. “Fury will pull her out.”

 

Stark gestures. “Natasha’s plane landed before the explosion, but there’s no way she reached that location before it went off.”

 

Dean fights to keep his voice even. “That doesn’t mean her cover isn’t blown.”

 

“That’s what I’m working on now,” Stark says grimly. “If Fury needed a hacker, or he needed to catch a hacker, he would have asked me.”

 

“Unless there’s something big to hide,” Steve supplies with a frown. “Last time it was Hydra weapons.”

 

Stark smirks. “And last time, we figured it out. I’ve never given up my backdoors into SHIELD.”

 

Dean knows he should be scandalized, but he’s not. It’s Stark, for one, and this is Natasha for another. If Natasha’s safety depends on Stark hacking SHIELD and figuring out what’s going on, he’s going to look the other way.

 

Metaphorically, anyway, because Dean isn’t going anywhere. The rest of the team seems to be similarly intent on staying there.

 

“What exactly are you looking for?” Dean asks.

 

Bruce is the one to answer, since Stark is obviously concentrating fiercely. “Tony needs to find the person who hacked into SHIELD’s files, and figure out what they’re trying to hide from us. It’s probably a good thing he can multitask.”

 

“I’m getting there,” Stark mutters. “Fuck, this guy is good. Bruce, remind me to offer him an employment contract when we figure out who it is.”

 

Steve makes a sound in protest. “What if it’s a bad guy?”

 

“This is SHIELD’s guy, and he’s trying to keep me out,” Stark replies. “Although your point is taken. We’ll wait to see.”

 

“Sir, I think I’ve found something,” Jarvis announces. “It’s a video file.”

 

“Play it, Sam,” Stark orders.

 

The video is—

 

Dean can’t believe what he’s seeing, but he’d know that face anywhere.

 

“Motherfucker,” Stark snarls.

 

“That’s Agent Coulson,” Steve says faintly.

 

Clint is swearing with the kind of fluency that would impress Dean if he weren’t completely floored.

 

“He’s dead,” Dean says. “He’s—he’s _dead_.”

 

Stark’s hands move quickly, pulling up another video file. “Apparently not. Looks like we know what SHIELD was trying to hide from us. Oh, their hacker _good_. I _want_ him.”

 

Bruce rolls his eyes, and Dean notices that he’s not at all surprised. “Standing right here, Tony.”

 

“Not like that,” Stark says absently. “I want to hire him. Okay, now we’ve got it.”

 

The data that scrolls across the hologram is unintelligible, although Dean figures that Stark and Bruce don’t have much trouble with it.

 

“Well, it seems that SHIELD has been running a secret offensive against a terrorist organization that’s using bits of Extremis to create super soldiers,” Stark says. “Not to mention its use of what should have been decommissioned Stark Industries weapons. I’m guessing Fury didn’t want us to find out he’d lied about Coulson’s death.”

 

Steve raises his eyebrows. “And they didn’t ask for our help? I think I’m hurt.”

 

“I’m definitely hurt,” Bruce says mildly.

 

“He put Natasha at risk,” Barton adds. “Who’s the hacker?”

 

“On SHIELD’s end? Not sure,” Stark admits. “Oh, hang on. I think I’ve finally got the file.” He types rapidly. “SHIELD’s information on her is highly classified, and it looks like SHIELD has been protecting her for a while.”

 

“She?” Dean asks weakly.

 

“I’ve got a bit of a report,” Stark says. “Refers to a young woman, a hacker, but not by name.”

 

“What about the mole?” Steve asks.

 

“Oh, he’s good, but not great,” Stark replies. “I do have a name and location on him, and Coulson’s team should have the information now, too.” He grins, looking almost feral. “If we hurry, we might even catch Agent Coulson.”

 

Everyone in the room looks at Dean, and he realizes that his loyalty is in question. Dean could side with SHIELD, and they’d probably shove him in a broom closet and he’d lose their trust and his position as their liaison. He could also look the other way, and let them do their thing.

 

Or he could help them.

 

“Pull up the footage of Coulson,” Dean says hoarsely, and looks at the face of the man who had saved his life, the man who had recruited him into SHIELD, the man who had given him a couple of pointers on dealing with difficult handlers.

 

He knows there are things that are need to know, secrets that SHIELD keeps because of national security, and reasons to keep things quiet. Dean _gets_ all of that. He’d just never prepared for the visceral reaction to finding out that someone he’d admired, that he’d been told was dead, is actually alive.

 

There are a lot of people who had mourned for Phil Coulson, and a number of them are in the room with him.

 

“Avengers assemble,” Dean jokes, even though it falls flat. “But I think someone ought to make sure Natasha has an exit strategy.”

 

“She’ll go to ground,” Barton says with quiet assurance. “And then she’ll show up when she’s most needed. If she needs us, she has ways of getting in touch.”

 

He nods. “All right, then. Let’s get to the bottom of this.”

 

And he really does mean all of it, even if it means losing his job with SHIELD.

 

Somehow, Dean doesn’t think so, though. Fury has to know that he couldn’t keep Coulson’s current status a secret forever, and Dean’s job is to be a liaison to the Avengers.

 

In this case, his loyalty is to the team. Maybe it’s always to the team.

 

**SHIELD Medical, Early Spring 2008**

 

Dean’s had a lot of time to think during his time in SHIELD medical, mostly about what he could have done differently on his last mission, although he’s coming up dry.

 

The whole thing in Angola had been a clusterfuck from the beginning—bad intel, way more bad guys than were supposed to be there, and a target who had been selling weapons to one of the warring factions. What was supposed to have been an exfiltration turned into the showdown at the OK Corral, with their target trying to ensure that the SHIELD agents sent to save his life wound up dead.

 

Dean has no doubt that their target would have disappeared after that, using the cover of several dead SHIELD agents to let everybody think he was dead, too.

 

Dean’s handler had ordered them all out, after Dean had already taken fire, essentially leaving Dean for dead. If Barton hadn’t disobeyed orders and killed their target, Dean would have gotten a bullet to the head.

 

Dean owes Barton his life, although he hasn’t been able to say thank you. He’d missed the extraction and had to make his own way out with a graze along his ribs that had quickly grown infected.

 

He’d used every trick he knew to get to the embassy in Luanda, and he’d been half out of his mind from fever when he’d arrived. He’s still amazed that he’d managed to get out alive.

 

No one at SHIELD will tell him if he’s in trouble, or whether his handler is filing a report against him, or anything. They just keep telling him to focus on recovering.

 

There’s a knock on the door, and Dean is surprised to see Coulson stick his head in. “Agent Winchester. How are you feeling?”

 

“A little bored,” he says honestly.

 

Coulson holds up a plastic sack. “I’ve got some books and magazines, and the doctors tell me I can bring you a laptop tomorrow.”

 

Dean blinks. “Um, wow. Thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”

 

“I’ve been laid up before,” Coulson replies. “It always helps to have something to take your mind off it.”

 

Dean accepts the bag. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you had to bring it, sir. I’m definitely grateful, I just—figured you had something better to do with your time.”

 

“Agent Barton said that you got a raw deal, but still managed to have a successful mission,” Coulson says, sitting in the chair next to Dean’s bed.

 

Dean can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes. “I think Barton is being too kind. He saved my life.”

 

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told him,” Coulson says. “It wasn’t your fault that you had bad intel. As it currently stands, you took out a major player in the arms race in west Africa, even if that wasn’t the original plan.”

 

Dean clutches the bag a little tighter. “Right.”

 

“You graduated with high marks from the Academy,” Coulson says quietly. “Your handlers all speak highly of you. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Dean.”

 

Dean glances at him. “I never got the chance to say thank you.”

 

Coulson frowns. “For what?”

 

Dean would much rather talk about something other than the last, failed mission. He’ll have to go over it with Psych anyway. “For what you said to me the last time I was in the hospital. It got me off my ass, and made me stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

 

A brief smile touches Coulson’s lips. “I wish I had the right words to say this time, but all I can promise is that there will be other bad missions. Some of them, you’ll walk away from, but others won’t. Eventually, maybe there will be a mission that you don’t survive.”

 

“Some pep talk, sir,” Dean replies, but he appreciates the honesty. “Thanks.”

 

“Trust me when I say that I will always let you know if you could have done something differently,” Coulson replies. “Or if you make a mistake. And trust me when I say that this time, that’s not the case. You did the best you could under the circumstances.”

 

Dean gives him a long look. “I trust you.”

 

“Get some rest,” Coulson advises. “I’ll be back tomorrow to see if you need anything else.”

 

“You really don’t have to do that, sir,” Dean protests.

 

Coulson levels a look at him, and Dean shuts his mouth. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Dean replies.

 

He has to admit, it feels good to have someone looking out for him.

 

**New York City, Summer 2013**

 

Fury’s face fills the monitor. “This isn’t how I wanted you to find out.”

 

Dean’s hanging back, because he honestly has no idea what he’s supposed to do, although he feels a little better with Barton’s shoulder pressed against his.

 

“Were you going to tell us?” Stark counters in a snide tone. “Really? Because all evidence points to you lying to us, and continuing to do so.”

 

“I didn’t lie to you,” Fury argues. “Phil Coulson died. I just didn’t tell you that he wasn’t dead anymore.”

 

Barton shudders, and Dean flinches. He’s not unversed in the supernatural, although he can’t say for sure that Fury made a deal with the devil to bring Coulson back to life. He also can’t say for sure that he _didn’t_.

 

And Dean knows a little bit about demons and deals from what Bobby has told him about his dad’s death, and some of the other cases they’ve worked. Dean’s pretty sure you don’t get someone back from the dead without crossing a few lines.

 

Stark opens his mouth, and Dean sees Bruce step on his foot. “What’s going on, Director?” Bruce asks. “There has to be a reason you called us in, given what you were trying to hide.”

 

“I didn’t have a choice,” Fury admits. “Coulson and his team have been chasing a group called Centipede. They’ve been using Extremis technology to enhance people.”

 

Stark stiffens. “And you didn’t call me?”

 

“I needed someone on this who was low profile, and the Avengers aren’t,” Fury replies. “We think they’ve made a deal with AIM, that they’re partnering for a job.”

 

“Why us, and why now, if you wanted it to stay quiet?” Steve asks, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

 

Fury sighs. “We’re stretched too thin. That bomb in New Mexico isn’t the first one they’ve set. We’ve got teams scrambled, but we don’t have enough, and our intelligence suggests that they’re planning something very big, maybe a full-scale release of something like Extremis.”

 

“That would cause hundreds of deaths,” Bruce protests. “Maybe thousands. I didn’t think they had a way of stabilizing Extremis.”

 

Fury shakes his head. “They don’t, but imagine the damage they could do.”

 

“I’d rather not,” Bruce says grimly.

 

“What can we do?” Steve asks.

 

Fury rubs his good eye, and Dean suddenly realizes that Fury is tired, more tired than he’s ever seen the director. “As much as it pains me to say this, I’m sending Coulson and his team to you. You can pool your resources.”

 

“Send him over,” Steve replies. “We’ll do our best to get to the bottom of this, sir.”

 

Dean wants to ask what Fury’s going to do about Natasha, but he knows better. Natasha never has an extraction plan, because she never needs one.

 

“They’ll be there in an hour,” Fury promises.

 

“Until then, send us everything—and I mean _everything_ —you have on this mess,” Stark insists. “Leave nothing out.”

 

Fury nods once, and then his image winks out.

 

“Fucking SHIELD,” Stark mutters. “No offense, Dean.”

 

“None taken,” Dean replies, feeling much the same way himself.

 

Thor clears his throat. “I do not understand why Director Fury would have hidden this from us. Coulson is our friend.”

 

“It was need to know, and we didn’t need to know,” Barton mutters.

 

Stark scowls. “And it’s Fury. Keeping secrets is basically a hobby of his.”

 

“I believe that Director Fury has sent the information you required, sir,” Jarvis announces.

 

Stark rubs his hands together. “Let’s get to it.”

 

To Dean’s surprise, Stark pulls the information up on the monitors in the living room, rather than retreating with Bruce to his lab.

 

“All hands on deck,” Stark announces, probably reading the expression on Dean’s face. “I’ve got some spare tablets if you can’t keep up with us.”

 

Dean is fairly certain that no one can keep up with Stark and Bruce, but they go over the data slowly, at least for them.

 

The map Stark pulls up has a bunch of locations lit up, all of them possible locations of AIM terrorist cells, Centipede labs, and potential targets, all in different colors so they’re readily distinguishable. There’s no pattern that Dean can discern, at least with the AIM and Centipede locations. The targets, though—they’re all high-profile and densely populated, places like New York City, Los Angeles, London, Kolkata, Hong Kong, Berlin.

 

“Not all of those cities can be targets,” Barton objects. “It’s impossible.”

 

Bruce rubs his chin. “I think we need to know what they want so we can narrow down the possibilities.”

 

“They’re a terrorist organization,” Barton says sourly. “I’m pretty sure they want to cause terror.”

 

“That’s not what AIM originally wanted, though,” Stark says thoughtfully. “Or that’s not all they wanted. Killian was creating weapons, and he needed a way to cover up his mistakes. He wanted to profit on terror.”

 

Steve sits up. “Wasn’t there something in there about a soldier? A former SHIELD agent they were using to do their dirty work?”

 

“Akela Amador,” Stark says, pulling up her picture. “And now I’m not going to sleep tonight.”

 

Dean shudders as he scans the case summary. The idea of someone putting out his eye and controlling his every move is definitely in “worst nightmare” category.

 

“Fuck,” Barton mutters next to him.

 

Dean winces, remembering that Barton has basically _lived_ it. “Easy.”

 

“War,” Steve says quietly. “They supply super soldiers, spies, weapons—it won’t matter if it’s under the table. They’ll still get rich, and people will still pay for it. They can hold the entire world for ransom if they want. Somebody always gets rich in a war.”

 

Steve doesn’t look at Stark, but Bruce flinches, and Stark’s expression is carefully, uncharacteristically blank. Dean’s pretty sure that Bruce just grabbed Stark’s hand under the table.

 

“So we figure out what locations would do the most damage, which ones would be most likely to start a war,” Barton says. “With Extremis, they might think it’s a terrorist attack.”

 

Stark frowns. “They might also pay not to have it happen again.”

 

“Global extortion,” Dean says. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

 

They start going over the possible targets, debating back and forth, and Stark and Bruce start talking about how they would accomplish the end goals they’re assuming AIM and Centipede have.

 

Dean’s really glad they’re using their powers for good and not for evil.

 

They’re in a heated debate, with Steve and Barton putting in their two cents, when the elevator doors slide open, revealing Phil Coulson—who is very much alive.

 

The whole room goes still and silent, and Barton makes a soft sound next to him, like he’d just been punched in the gut.

 

Coulson takes two steps inside, and then stops cold.

 

“I thought you were bringing your hacker,” Stark says, his tone intentionally snide. “She has skills.”

 

“I thought we might do this privately first,” Coulson replies, his tone quiet and even. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s not worth much,” Stark snaps.

 

Bruce puts a hand on Stark’s shoulder, but he doesn’t say anything.

 

Steve is looking away, and Dean can see his jaw working furiously. Finally, he straightens his shoulders, and looks at Coulson dead on. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

 

 _Something_ passes across Coulson’s face, and Dean has seen that emotion before. Whatever had happened, Coulson isn’t entirely okay. “Thank you.”

 

Thor has been quiet until now, but he steps forward with his hand outstretched. “It is good to see you alive and well,” he offers, clasping Coulson’s hand.

 

Coulson nods, and there’s another long pause as he looks at Dean and Barton. “Clint, Dean—”

 

“If you apologize again, I _will_ punch you,” Barton says in a low, dangerous voice.

 

Coulson winces, and then he looks at Dean, who realizes that he hasn’t said anything yet.

 

“There are a lot of people I wished would come back from the dead,” Dean says quietly. “Never thought I’d get any of them back.”

 

A smile softens Coulson’s expression. “Congratulations on your promotion, Agent Winchester. I knew you’d be the right man for the job.”

 

Next to him, Barton says, “You’re such a fucking asshole, sir,” and then steps forward and hauls Coulson in for a hug.

 

Dean does the same when Barton releases him, and he can feel some of the tension go out of the room when he lets go of Coulson.

 

“Call your team in, Agent Coulson,” Steve says formally. “Let’s figure out what’s going on.”

 

**Sioux Falls, South Dakota, Winter 2003**

 

Dean isn’t sure he’s even going to make it back to Sioux Falls, what with the weather. There’s fucking snow everywhere, and flights had been canceled at airports across the Midwest. In the end, Dean had been forced to fly into Kansas City, rent a car, and white knuckle the drive up to South Dakota.

 

The drive would normally take just over five hours, but that’s when the roads are in good shape. Today, he’s in the car twelve hours, and it’s late by the time he gets to Sioux Falls.

 

He doesn’t go to Bobby’s, because it’s 2 am, and he’s none too sure of his welcome. He knows that Sam is staying there, and it’s probably too much to hope for that Sam will understand that he just hadn’t been able to get back before now.

 

Instead, he checks into one of the local motels and sighs when the clerk smiles flirtatiously at the sight of his uniform. “Service members get a discount if you show military ID.”

 

Dean would have just showed his driver’s license, but he’s not going to turn his nose up at a discount when he’s offered one. “Thanks.”

 

He sleeps like the dead that night, and sleeps in late the next morning. He just makes the checkout time, and thinks about what he’s going to do if he can’t stay at Bobby’s, if Sam is just as hostile as the last time Dean had seen him.

 

If things go wrong, Dean thinks, he can always take Scooter up on his offer to visit his family. He has somewhere to go if this all goes south.

 

Dean isn’t sure if it’s a good thing or not when he sees his dad’s old Impala parked in front of Bobby’s house, and he pulls up next to it.

 

He’d always thought he’d be the one to get the car, back when he’d been a teenager. That car had been home more than anywhere else.

 

It’s just another reminder of everything Dean has fucked up, another reminder of his dad, and the fact that Dean hadn’t been around for him or Sam.

 

Normally, Dean wouldn’t bother knocking, but he thinks it’s probably the right call under the circumstances.

 

He’s grateful that Bobby’s the one to answer the door, and his expression is one of relief. “Thank God you’re home safe.”

 

Dean returns Bobby’s hug, feeling the strength in Bobby’s grip. “Bobby. I’m sorry I couldn’t be here sooner.”

 

“Don’t tell me that,” Bobby replies gruffly. “Tell your brother.”

 

“I will, just as soon as I see him,” Dean replies. “Still, it has to be said. You were here, and I wasn’t.”

 

Bobby shakes his head. “You’re still fighting a war, Dean, even if it’s not the same one we are.”

 

Dean takes a breath. “It’s no excuse for not being here.”

 

“No, son, it’s a _reason_ , and maybe you and Sam both need to learn the difference,” Bobby replies. “Sam’s hurting right now.”

 

Dean hears the warning in Bobby’s voice, and he knows what that means. Sam’s pissed off, and that means he’s probably going to lash out.

 

He deserves whatever Sam dishes out, and he’ll take it.

 

“Yeah,” Dean says hoarsely. “I know.”

 

“Your dad was proud of you,” Bobby says quietly. “He told me that.”

 

Dean doesn’t know if he believes Bobby or not, but he _wants_ to believe it. “Thanks.”

 

Bobby pulls him inside. “Come on. Have you eaten yet?”

 

Dean gets through breakfast, gets changed into civvies, and then heads outside to help Bobby work on a car.

 

It feels good to have his hands on an engine again, although he’s been known to fix or hotwire a vehicle in the field for his unit. There’s no one shooting at him right now, though, and it’s cold, but Bobby’s set up the portable heater in the garage, and Dean doesn’t mind.

 

There’s no one shooting at him, Bobby’s working next to him, and Dean feels the tension in his neck and shoulders uncoil after months of being on guard.

 

“Bobby!”

 

Sam’s voice breaks the companionable silence and Dean’s calm. He’s just as abruptly keyed up again, tension humming through him as Sam enters the garage.

 

He’s shot up another couple of inches since the last time Dean saw him, and he’s starting to fill out. When he’s done growing, Dean knows he’s going to be huge, imposing, even if he didn’t move like a fighter.

 

Sam stops cold when he spots Dean. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

 

Dean takes a deep breath. “I came as soon as I could, Sammy.”

 

He expects the punch, and he takes it, although he’s a little surprised that Sam manages to put him on his ass. “You don’t get to show up!” Sam shouts. “You don’t get to pretend like you didn’t leave us!”

 

A defense leaps to Dean’s lips, but he stops. He can’t explain why he wasn’t there for his dad now without letting it out that his dad hadn’t been there for him years ago. “I enlisted,” Dean replies, standing slowly and dusting himself off. “I didn’t leave you.”

 

Sam comes after him again, and in spite of his size, Dean disables him quickly, trying not to hurt him. “I made a decision,” he says firmly. “And I was in Afghanistan when I got the message. I came back as soon as I could.”

 

Sam breaks free, and Dean lets him go, and Sam’s expression is twisted up in rage. “Do you know what it was like, living with Dad when you weren’t there? It got worse! It got so much worse, and you were nowhere to be seen! You left me with him, and it was a fucking nightmare!”

 

Dean accepts the words like he’d accepted the punch, and all he can offer is, “I’m sorry, Sammy.”

 

“Don’t you call me that!” Sam hisses. “Don’t you fucking call me that. You’re _nothing_ to me, you hear? You’re not family, you’re not my brother. You left? Well, you can’t come back. I never want to see you again.”

 

He turns and stalks out, and Dean slumps, feeling tears burn his eyes. As bad as he’d figured it would be, he hadn’t been prepared.

 

There’s no way he could have been prepared for _that_.

 

“Dean, he doesn’t mean it,” Bobby says softly. “He’ll come around.”

 

Dean shakes his head. “Why should he, Bobby? He’s right. It was my fuck up that started this mess. Why shouldn’t he blame me?”

 

“You should tell him the whole story,” Bobby urges. “Tell him what happened with your dad.”

 

Dean scrubs at his face. “No. He wouldn’t listen to me now anyway. Look, I—I don’t want to impose. I’ve got a buddy who asked me to stay with him. Maybe that’s for the best.”

 

And Dean can see the war in Bobby’s eyes, can see him trying to decide whether to ask Dean to stay and force another confrontation, or letting Dean go.

 

Dean knows what he’s going to choose before Bobby opens his mouth. Sam’s still young, and he needs Bobby. Dean’s on his own, and has been since he was sixteen.

 

“Don’t be a stranger,” Bobby finally says, and his expression says he’s torn up, even if his voice is steady. “You come visit when you can, and you write, too.”

 

“I’ll send you postcards,” Dean promises, but he can’t do more than that, not right now.

 

Maybe, someday, they’ll patch things up, but Dean’s not counting on it.

 

Bobby gives him a tight hug, and mutters, “You watch your back.”

 

“I’ve got people to do that for me,” Dean replies, and then he walks away.

 

Funny thing is, at that time Dean hadn’t believed he’d be the last man standing. He also hadn’t thought Sam would ever forgive him.

 

**New York City, Summer 2013**

 

When Coulson’s team joins them, Dean’s first thought is of how fucking young they are, at least three of them, anyway. The kids are the first off the elevator, and they look at the Avengers arranged around the room with ill-disguised wonder.

 

“Oh, man,” the dark-haired girl murmurs.

 

Coulson looks somewhat amused as he makes introductions. “Skye, Fitz, Simmons, May, and Ward. I think you probably know the Avengers.”

 

Dean has met both May and Ward before, but the others are new to him, which is probably not surprising, since he’s pretty sure they’re on the science side, rather than operations.

 

Skye looks at Dean. “I don’t know him.”

 

“Agent Dean Winchester,” Dean says. “SHIELD liaison.”

 

“All right, now that we all know each other, let’s get moving,” Stark says.

 

Dean pretty much loses the thread of the conversation at that point as the geeks start talking about the data. In the face of science, the three kids seem to lose some of their awe and jump in.

 

His cell phone rings, and Dean doesn’t recognize the number, but he picks up anyway. “Winchester.”

 

“Dean, it’s me,” Natasha says.

 

Dean takes a few steps away from the others. “Are you okay?”

 

“I’m safe for now,” she replies. “I have information.”

 

“Go,” Dean says.

 

“The attack is planned for New York and Kolkata,” Natasha replies. “I don’t know who they’re using, but they have several operatives under their control. They’re planning to make it look like a terrorist attack originating from Pakistan.”

 

Dean can guess what the response to that will be. “Have you talked to Fury?”

 

“Yes,” she says. “I’m heading back to New York now. He’s sending another team to Kolkata. Fury said you had help.”

 

Dean laughs, knowing that the sound holds little in the way of real humor. “You could say that. We’ll work on who they’re using from our end.”

 

“See you soon,” Natasha promises.

 

“Tasha?” Barton asks as soon as Dean gets off the phone.

 

Dean nods and calls out. “Widow says New York and Kolkata are the targets, and that they’re making it look like a terrorist attack by Pakistan.”

 

“That helps,” Stark says. “We can start narrowing down the possibilities.”

 

Jarvis says, “Sir, you have a phone call from Assistant Director Hill.”

 

“We’re busy here,” Stark says.

 

“I’ll take the call, Jarvis,” Dean says, and his phone rings. “Winchester.”

 

“We have a problem,” Hill says. “There are reports of a group of people raising havoc in Lower Manhattan. They’ve hit two banks so far.”

 

“No offense, ma’am, but isn’t that a problem for the police?” Dean asks.

 

“It would be if bullets weren’t bouncing off them,” Hill replies sourly. “We need them stopped.”

 

Dean nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

 

“I’ll send you the location,” Hill replies.

 

Dean does some rapid mental calculations. “Cap, Barton, Thor, we’re going to need you. I don’t think we can be of much use here anyway.”

 

Ward straightens. “Do you need us, Agent Winchester?”

 

Dean looks at Coulson, who nods. “Take Ward and May. They might be of assistance.”

 

“Suit up,” Cap orders, and Dean realizes that this is the first time he will be going into battle with them.

 

He’s a little nervous, and not entirely sure he can do much good, but he has to try.

 

The scene is pure chaos when they arrive, with people running down the street screaming, and while it’s clear that their targets have moved on, it’s easy enough to track them by seeing where the people are running from.

 

“Hawkeye, can you take the high ground?” Cap asks.

 

“On it,” Barton replies, and runs towards one of the nearby buildings that has a flat roof.

 

“Winchester, take Agents May and Ward and clear out the civilians,” Cap orders. “If you run into trouble, let us know.”

 

Judging from their expressions, May and Ward aren’t thrilled to be left out of the main action, but everybody knows Cap calls the shots in the field.

 

Thor and Cap take off running, leaving Dean with May and Ward to clear the streets—which is funny, because Dean is fairly sure they’re two of the least reassuring people he knows.

 

“Let’s move quickly,” May says.

 

There are half a dozen cops on the street, but they seem relieved by the arrival of at least some of the Avengers, as well as SHIELD’s presence. Dean suspects that after the Battle of Manhattan, the NYPD and FDNY are happy to let the Avengers and SHIELD deal with this sort of mess.

 

Dean can hear explosions in the distance, and Barton says over the coms, “We’ve got three of them, and they just seem to be causing chaos more than anything else.”

 

“It’s a distraction,” Cap replies. “But we still have to deal with it. People are getting hurt.”

 

“Do you need us?” May asks.

 

“Better not,” Cap says. “We’re funneling people toward you. Send the police to the other corner, and have them do the same.”

 

There’s the sound of another explosion, this time louder, and more terrible. “What was that?” Ward demanded.

 

“Cap’s down!” Barton shouts.

 

“I have him,” Thor says. “He will need a doctor.”

 

“Hawkeye, if you have a shot, take it,” Dean orders. “We can’t risk another explosion, not with all of these people here.”

 

Barton grunts. “Got it. I need a minute.”

 

Dean weighs his options. “May, you’re with me. Ward, grab a cop and make sure the area is secure.” He spots a TV news van. “And keep the reporters away if you can.”

 

“Hawkeye, where are Thor and Cap?”

 

“One block north, one block west,” Barton replies. “I’ve got the shot for one of them.”

 

“Take it,” Dean orders. “And then take the other guy out.”

 

“Girl, actually,” Barton replies.

 

Dean smiles. “I meant guy in the gender neutral sense.”

 

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” May says.

 

Dean grins at her. “Oh, come on. You find me charming.”

 

Her eyebrow twitches in a way that means she definitely does _not_ find him charming, or at least has no intention of admitting that she does, even through micro expressions.

 

When they find Thor and Cap, Cap looks trashed, his uniform torn and bloody, and it looks like he’s been burned in a couple of places, too.

 

“I got him,” Dean says, taking one of Cap’s arms and slinging it over his shoulders, with May on the other side. “How close was he?”

 

“Too close,” Thor replies. “He was unconscious for at least a minute.”

 

Cap coughs. “I’m fine.”

 

“Yeah, you’re great, Cap,” Dean says. “Thor?”

 

“I will assist Hawkeye,” Thor promises, taking a couple of steps back and starting to swing his hammer. Thunder booms overhead as the clouds gather, and Dean and May support Cap out of the way of danger.

 

Dean catches sight of a couple of people who have stopped to take pictures or video with their mobile phones. “Move your asses!” Dean yells. “It’s not safe here!”

 

When they don’t start moving right away, May yells, “Now!”

 

They scuttle away at that, and Dean snorts. “I always knew you were scary, Agent May.”

 

May almost smiles.

 

“Widow is scarier,” Dean adds.

 

“No offense, but she really is,” Cap agrees.

 

May actually cracks a smile at that. “She is.”

 

SHIELD is there now, and there are paramedics on scene, which Cap tries to wave off.

 

“Just deal with it,” Dean says. “Hawkeye, Thor, report.”

 

“Three dead bad guys,” Barton says. “I think I managed to get the third just before he exploded.”

 

Dean considers their next move. “Agent May, go with Cap. Ward, how are you doing?”

 

“Civilians have been cleared from the area,” Ward replies over the coms. “We’re securing the perimeter now.”

 

“Thor, Hawkeye, you up for helping with clean up?” Dean asks, surveying the scene as rescue crews move in.

 

“Anything we can do, sir,” Barton replies cheerfully.

 

Dean’s a little surprised that he merits a sir, and he feels a warm flush of pleasure. “All right. I’m going to head back to the Tower, see what our geniuses have figured out. I’ll see you all back there.”

 

And then he allows himself a sigh of relief at making it through his first engagement.

 

~~~~~

 

When he gets back to the Tower, he heads up to the penthouse, where he sees Stark sitting next to Skye, and Coulson looking very tense. Bruce seems amused, though, so that probably means that Stark is trying to rile up Coulson.

 

“What is SHIELD paying you?” Stark is asking. “Because I can probably triple it. Quadruple it, even.”

 

Skye’s expression suggests she’s flattered, although she politely declines. “No, thank you. I’m good where I am.”

 

“You sure?” Stark asks, and then turns his attention on Fitz and Simmons. “Same goes for you two.”

 

Coulson scowls. “Are you done?”

 

“Well, I don’t know,” Stark drawls. “You were the one who was dead. Dead men don’t need hackers, or biochemists, or engineers for that matter.”

 

Coulson stares at the floor. “I suppose I deserved that.”

 

“No poaching from SHIELD,” Dean says as he approaches.

 

“I haven’t entirely given up on poaching you yet,” Stark replies.

 

Dean grins. “I’m your liaison. That’s as close to poaching as you’ll get.”

 

“It’s really a very nice offer, Mr. Stark,” Simmons says apologetically. “It’s just that we like working for Agent Coulson. We’re really very happy.”

 

Fitz seems to be a little more torn. “Very happy.”

 

Bruce chuckles. “Tony, you’ve made the offer, and your point.”

 

“Have I?” Stark counters. “I don’t have so many friends that I’m okay with losing one, and I’m certainly _not_ okay with losing one and then finding out he’s not so lost, because people have been lying to me.”

 

Dean’s actually kind of glad to be around for this, because while he can understand need to know, and secrets, and all the rest, it doesn’t mean he’s not angry.

 

Then again, Dean’s been angry for a lot of years now—angry and heartbroken and grieving. He’s used to it. He just sets it aside.

 

“I’m sorry,” Coulson replies. “I really am. I didn’t think you’d care.”

 

“You underestimated me,” Stark says, deadly serious.

 

Coulson inclines his head. “I did.”

 

That seems to diffuse the tension, and Stark’s lips twitch. “All right then. Skye, Fitz, Simmons, the offer is still on the table whenever you get tired of SHIELD.”

 

“Does anybody want to know how things went?” Dean asks in a bid to redirect the conversation.

 

Stark makes a gesture that Jarvis apparently interprets, because new images pop up on the screen. “What makes you think we don’t?”

 

Dean sees footage from the fight, and he sighs, knowing that it had been too much to hope for that the video hadn’t made it up on YouTube.

 

“I’d like to hear how things went,” Coulson says mildly. “Specifically, where are Ward and May?”

 

Dean gives them a quick rundown of events. “Are we sure the dead guys weren’t the attack AIM and Centipede are planning?”

 

“We’re sure,” Bruce replies. “We know there’s something more going on here. They’ve been working on a way to effectively utilize Extremis to enhance humans, but it kills a number of their subjects, and it’s not easy to administer.”

 

Dean frowns. “That just means they can’t use an aerosol, or introduce it into the water supply in order to reach their objective.”

 

“Correct,” Bruce replies. “They have to introduce it directly into the blood stream.”

 

“That’s why we’re having such a hard time identifying a target,” Fitz adds. “There doesn’t seem to be much of a point. They’ve been trying to stabilize a version of Extremis to create supersoldiers. It’s not really a viable weapon—unless you count the people they’re using.”

 

Stark stares at the data, and Dean can almost see his mind working. “What if this is all a distraction?” Stark asks.

 

Dean tucks his hands in his pockets. “Like the guys on the street.”

 

“Mayhem, chaos, all designed to keep us busy, maybe take out a couple of Avengers while they’re at it,” Stark agrees. “SHIELD knows they’re planning something big, so they give us something big, while the real plan—”

 

“The real plan remains off the radar,” Bruce says, fumbling his glasses on and starting to bounce data off the holographic display.

 

Dean has seen the two of them work together often enough to tell when they’re onto something, when their minds are on the same track, and they’re racing to a final conclusion.

 

What’s left are several glowing dots on a world map—New York, Los Angeles, London, Berlin, Kolkata, Hong Kong—all targets that SHIELD had identified, all of them near Centipede labs.

 

“There’s one place where people have things introduced directly into their blood streams all the time, and no one ever thinks anything about it,” Bruce says grimly. “I think the terrorist attacks are real, but this might be the bigger threat.”

 

Hospitals, Dean thinks with horror. Where people get better or die, where they get new medications, where they trust doctors implicitly.

 

“It’s wide scale human testing,” Simmons says quietly. “Which they would have to do for their serum to work.”

 

“But it doesn’t work on everyone,” Coulson objects. “We know that.”

 

Dean swallows. “But that’s not the point. What would happen if terrorists targeted hospitals?”

 

“Panic, chaos, maybe worse,” Coulson says.

 

“So, they cover up what they’re doing, remove the evidence and start World War III in one fell swoop,” Bruce says sourly. “If that’s what they’re doing, they would have needed to recruit people.”

 

“Jarvis, pull up a list of drug trials taking place in those locations,” Stark orders. “Let’s look at everything we can, even if it seems obscure.”

 

Ward, Barton, and Thor are back by the time Jarvis digs up as much information on experimental drug trials as is available. By the time the geeks have narrowed down their options, May returns, without Steve.

 

“The doctors want to keep him overnight,” May explains. “He’s not happy about it.”

 

Dean shrugs. “He doesn’t have to be happy about it. He just has to do what the doctor orders.”

 

The elevator door slides open and Natasha enters the penthouse, looking none the worse for wear. Dean’s more than a little relieved. “Look who finally joined the party.”

 

Natasha rolls her eyes. “I was a little busy.”

 

“Beating up bad guys and breaking hearts?” Dean asks.

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” The smirk drops off her face as she looks at Coulson. “Director Fury read me in on the situation on my way back.”

 

Coulson nods. “I see.”

 

“Don’t let there be a next time,” she orders.

 

He smiles. “I won’t.”

 

“Good,” Natasha says. “I have information on the location of some of the labs.”

 

“We’ll take it,” Stark replies.

 

Between Natasha’s intelligence, and Stark and Skye’s hacking skills, they soon come up with the information from an experimental drug trial in New York, which is made up of teenagers.

 

“Fucking kids,” Barton says when their pictures appear on the screen. “What did these assholes do?”

 

“They promised the parents that their kids would live,” Coulson says gravely. “What parent could refuse?”

 

“Wait, that means we’ve got teenagers who have the serum?” Ward asks incredulously. “What the hell are we going to do with them?”

 

Stark clears his throat. “I can get rid of Extremis. If it’s repaired whatever’s wrong with them, they’ll be good as new.”

 

“Okay, so that’s one part of the plan,” Dean says. “But that means we still have to stop them from blowing up the hospital—hospitals, plural.”

 

Everybody turns to look at Dean.

 

Dean looks at Coulson. “You’re the senior agent here, sir.”

 

“The Avengers are your team now, Agent Winchester,” Coulson replies.

 

Dean runs a hand over his face, glancing around at the others, checking to see if they’re on board with this, but no one objects. “AIM and Centipede can’t know that we have any idea what they’re doing. Stark, Skye, can you two plant some evidence that indicates we don’t know what the hell we’re doing? Is that possible?”

 

Stark puts a hand on his chest. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

 

“Okay, then you two work on that,” Dean says. “Widow, do you know when they’re going to start blowing shit up?”

 

Natasha checks the time. “About two hours. A little less.”

 

“Not enough time to evacuate, then,” Dean says, quickly working through the options. “How bad off are these kids? Could they use them?”

 

Simmons winces. “We can stabilize them in the short term. Maybe. It really depends on the situation.”

 

Bruce and Stark share a significant look. “There are the tranquilizers we developed for the Other Guy,” Bruce offers. “That would do it.”

 

“SHIELD can stabilize the others,” Fitz says. “From the other locations anyway. They have our formula, and everything they need.”

 

Dean nods. “All right. Coulson, May, and Ward, take Bruce to the hospital. Figure out how the kids are doing and what you need to do to get them stabilized. Evacuate the hospital if necessary, but keep it quiet.”

 

He turns to Natasha. “How are you doing?”

 

Natasha hitches a shoulder. “I slept on the plane. I’ll be fine.”

 

“You and Hawkeye cover the hospital. Stark and Skye are pretty sure they know who from Centipede or AIM are going to blow things up,” Dean says. “I want them stopped, and I don’t care how you do it.”

 

“What about the rest of us?” Stark asks. “If you’re sending Bruce—”

 

Dean holds up a hand. “Banner’s face isn’t well known the way yours is, or even Thor’s, and if something goes really wrong— ” Dean stops, figuring that no one needs it spelled out. “Fury was right about one thing—if people knew that kids and hospitals had been targeted, it would be a total fucking nightmare. Hawkeye and Widow aren’t going to be seen, or if they are, it won’t be as themselves.”

 

He pauses. “Although, you bring up a good point. How would you and Thor like to provide a distraction? I think there might be a Centipede lab nearby that needs to be destroyed.”

 

Thor swings his hammer. “I think that could be arranged.”

 

Stark still looks disgruntled, probably because Dean is splitting him and Bruce up. “Fine.”

 

“What about us?” Fitz pipes up. “We could help.”

 

They’re so fucking young, and Dean has no intention of putting them into the line of fire. “We’ll need you to help with the evacuation if the hospital has to be emptied. Coulson can direct you.”

 

Fitz and Skye look disappointed, but Dean’s pretty sure Simmons is at least a little bit relieved.

 

“Agent Winchester is correct,” Coulson adds. “We’ll need your help with the evacuation if it comes to that.”

 

They nod, and Dean glances around. “All right. Let’s get this done.”

 

He just hopes that his plan isn’t totally shit—although he’s pretty sure one of the others would say something if it was.

 

~~~~~

 

The next few hours are a blur of activity as Dean coordinates with SHIELD and the other teams they’re sending, ensures that Stark and Skye’s digital evidence—or whatever it’s called—makes it look like SHIELD doesn’t know its ass from its elbows, and checks in with Bruce.

 

“I’m sorry,” Dean says quietly. “I know you hate to transform, and I realize it’s a risk, but—”

 

“It’s the right call,” Bruce replies with a smile. “Honestly, it’s nice to be needed for something other than the Other Guy. Hopefully.”

 

Dean pats him on the shoulder. “You’ll do great, doc. Thanks.”

 

He has to head out then, because Thor and Stark are flying there—not that he has much to do, other than keep an eye on the exits. SHIELD has sent backup in the form of another team of agents to catch any stragglers.

 

With Thor and Iron Man at the Centipede lab, and Steve still in medical, Dean doesn’t think that anyone will notice that the other Avengers are elsewhere.

 

As requested, Iron Man and Thor make a big entrance, and then sweep in with every evidence of enjoyment. Dean has heard that their first meeting hadn’t gone so well, so it’s nice to see them getting along.

 

Dean knows all too well that they have the easy job. Coulson and his team, as well as Bruce, have the most difficult one. He wishes he didn’t have to leave it to them, but he still thinks it’s the right choice.

 

“Well, that was fun,” Stark says over the coms. “We’re all wrapped up here, Agent Winchester.”

 

“Good job, guys,” Dean replies. “I think there are some reporters close by, so do me a favor and look official, huh? We want to make a splash.”

 

The other reason Dean had chosen Thor and Iron Man for this job is because they attract a crowd, and a lot of attention. No one is going to be looking for SHIELD or the Avengers anywhere else, and since this is a Centipede lab, they might not know that SHIELD is aware of their true purpose.

 

Reporters have already converged, and Dean comes out to start herding them away, as though they’re worried about people knowing of their presence.

 

He’s relieved when Barton calls him. “We’ve got them. Nat took one out, and I got the other, and the kids are in pretty good condition.”

 

“Good,” Dean says. “Great. Thanks.”

 

“It was a good plan, boss,” Barton replies. “And a clean operation.”

 

Dean smiles. “Yeah, best we can hope for, right?”

 

The other teams are, thankfully, just as successful, which means the next global catastrophe has been averted, and Stark and Bruce have a lot of people to work on curing. It’s a win for everybody, especially when Dean argues successfully to do the debriefing via teleconference.

 

By then, Dean knows he’s been awake for more than 24 hours, and he doesn’t think the others are in much better shape. Thankfully, everybody gives their reports fairly quickly, and that’s enough. AIM and Centipede have been dealt a serious blow, and SHIELD didn’t lose anybody.

 

Dean will take the win, especially since Fury is pleased enough to say as much.

 

“That was a well-executed plan, Agent Winchester,” Fury says. “Get some rest, all of you. Coulson, your team is on stand down for the next week.”

 

Dean feels the familiar post-engagement adrenalin crash, and he rubs his eyes.

 

Coulson clears his throat. “I think that’s our cue.”

 

“Don’t be a stranger,” Stark orders, shaking Coulson’s hand. “You know I can track you down now.”

 

Coulson smiles. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

Bruce says, “You’d better stop by medical to see Steve. He’ll be disappointed if you don’t.”

 

Barton pulls Coulson into a brief hug, as does Natasha, and Thor shakes Coulson’s hand warmly.

 

Dean is pretty sure Stark is giving another recruitment speech to the kids on Coulson’s team while Coulson turns a blind eye. “Take care of yourself, sir,” Dean says.

 

“You, too,” Coulson says. “I knew Fury made the right call.”

 

“Thanks.” Dean is warmed by the praise. Coming from Coulson, it means a lot.

 

Barton covers a yawn. “You want to share a cab back?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean replies. He’s too tired to do much more than fall into bed tonight, and he suspects Natasha isn’t in much better shape. “I need about a day’s worth of sleep.”

 

He actually gets twelve hours, and a shower, and he’s contemplating food, when someone knocks on his door.

 

Barton is standing out in the hall, looking relaxed in jeans and a hoodie. “We’re grilling on the roof if you want to join us.”

 

Dean thinks about his empty fridge. “Should I bring anything?”

 

“It’s BYOB,” Barton replies. “The food is taken care of this time.”

 

Dean hasn’t had much chance to get to know his new neighbors, but there seem to be a lot of them on the roof. There are at least three grills going, and Dean can smell the meat cooking. There’s a table set up with sides, buns, and condiments, and a few coolers stocked with drinks.

 

Barton greets everyone by name, and introduces Dean around. There are kids playing, and Dean puts his six-pack of beer next to one of the coolers, grabbing one for himself.

 

A few people recognize him from the news coverage, and Dean realizes that Barton had been right. Dean’s not going to be able to go on undercover ops in the future.

 

Good thing the Avengers are going to keep him busy.

 

Dean’s chatting with Barton and Debbie, one of his downstairs neighbors, when his phone rings. “Sorry, I have to take this,” Dean says, excusing himself.

 

“Winchester.”

 

“Uh, hey. It’s Sam.”

 

Dean has no idea what to say, not after their last conversation, but he goes for something noncommittal. “Hi.”

 

“How are you?” Sam asks.

 

Dean frowns. “Fine.”

 

“I saw you on the news.”

 

The roof is a little noisy, so Dean heads for the stairwell. “Yeah, everybody has a cell phone these days, and people are always interested in the Avengers.”

 

“And that explosion nearly took out Captain America,” Sam says quietly. “How close were you?”

 

Dean frowns. “Not close enough to get hurt. What is this about, Sam?”

 

“I just—I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Sam admits. “I wasn’t sure anybody would call me if you weren’t.”

 

“I’m fine,” Dean replies.

 

Sam is quiet for a long moment. “Look, I may be in the area next week. Maybe I can stop in and see you.”

 

Dean runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, sure, of course. If you want. I’m not sure why you’d want to see me, though, not after the last time we talked.”

 

“I’ve got something I need to give you,” Sam replies.

 

“Okay,” Dean says, because he can’t say no to that, not if Sam wants to see him. “I have a couch, if you want to stay with me.”

 

Sam hesitates.

 

“Or we could just grab a drink somewhere,” Dean adds.

 

“I’m not sure how long I can stay,” Sam replies. “I might need to get right back on the road.”

 

“However long you can stay is fine,” Dean says. “I can’t promise that I won’t have to work.”

 

Sam lets out a noise. “Yeah, of course. I understand. I should be there in a couple of days. Can I give you a call?”

 

“Sure,” Dean replies. “I’ll see you.”

 

He hangs up and leans his head against the wall. It’s probably too much to hope for that this next meeting with Sam will go any better than their other interactions, but Sam had sounded almost conciliatory on the phone.

 

Dean shakes his head and tucks his phone in his pocket, and then heads back up to the roof, mostly because he really wants another beer.

 

“Everything okay?” Barton asks as Dean grabs another drink.

 

Dean shrugs. “Family.”

 

“Your brother?” Barton asks, taking a swig of his own beer.

 

“Yeah.” Dean gives him an apologetic look. “Not really something I like to talk about.”

 

Barton claps him on the shoulder. “I get that. What you need is one of Debbie’s cookies.”

 

~~~~~

 

Dean doesn’t think Sam will actually show up, so he tries to put it out of his mind. He and the Avengers get called out the next day to deal with a mad scientist and his giant robots, and they have to go to Washington D.C. to keep the robots from destroying the Capitol.

 

They need the Hulk for this one, and that means a lot more property damage, which means a lot more paperwork, so Dean heads to his office at SHIELD HQ once they’re back in New York.

 

He looks up with a smile when Natasha enters. “Fancy meeting you here.”

 

“We’re going out for a drink if you want to join us,” she replies. “And then maybe you could come back to my place for a nightcap after.”

 

Dean looks at his paperwork, and then back up at Natasha. “Yeah, why not? The report can wait for tomorrow.”

 

Steve and Barton are waiting for them out in the lobby. Thor had headed straight back to London to meet up with his girlfriend, and Stark is probably hovering over Bruce, since Bruce always takes a little time to recover after a transformation, and he doesn’t care for company.

 

They go to the same bar they’d patronized last time, since it’s close to their respective apartment buildings, and no one pays them much attention.

 

“You feeling okay?” Dean asks Steve once they get the pitchers of beer and platters of wings and nachos.

 

Steve shrugs. “I’m good. My recovery time is pretty short.”

 

“We’re off the clock, Winchester,” Barton says. “Try to relax.”

 

Dean stuffs a loaded nacho into his mouth. “I’m relaxed.”

 

Natasha kicks him under the table. “Your manners are terrible.”

 

Dean just smirks at her and eats another nacho.

 

Barton tries to talk them into playing darts, but none of them are stupid enough to go up against him, since the best they can hope for is a draw.

 

Dean has a pleasant buzz going when his phone rings, and he groans. “One evening,” he mutters. “That’s all I ask.”

 

But it’s Sam’s name on the screen, and Dean says, “It’s my brother. I have to take this. I’ll be back.”

 

He ducks outside. “Sam?”

 

“Hey, I’m in town,” Sam replies. “Is there somewhere I can meet you?”

 

Dean glances over his shoulder. “I’m out for a drink with friends now. You can join us, or we can meet at my place.”

 

“Can we meet at your place?” Sam asks. “I think that might work better.”

 

“I can be there in fifteen,” Dean replies. “I’ll text you the address.”

 

He heads back inside, pulling a couple of bills out of his wallet to cover his share of the tab. “I’m going to have to take a rain check,” Dean says, putting the money on the table. “Sorry, guys. My brother is in town.”

 

“Give me a call if you need anything,” Barton offers.

 

Natasha stands. “I’ll be right back.” She follows Dean outside. “Call if you need a distraction later.”

 

“Thanks,” Dean replies. “Can I kiss you?”

 

Natasha smiles. “I think you’d better.” Dean keeps it light, but Natasha deepens the kiss, her lips warm and soft. “Call me later if you need me.”

 

Dean kisses her again, an expression of gratitude, and then he heads home.

 

Sam is standing outside, loitering when Dean approaches, and Dean hopes that he hasn’t been there long, since otherwise, one of his neighbors have probably called the cops.

 

“Have you been here long?” Dean asks.

 

Sam shrugs. “Not too long, no.”

 

“Come on up,” Dean says. “I haven’t had any time to decorate.”

 

“It’s fine,” Sam replies. “Sorry to pull you away from your friends.”

 

“I’m glad you could come.” Dean knows they’re being painfully polite, but that’s a lot better than screaming insults at each other.

 

Sam stands in the center of Dean’s living area, his hands in his pockets, and his shoulders hunched. “I’m sorry for what I said on the phone. I was angry.”

 

“I get that,” Dean replies evenly. “You had a right.”

 

“Maybe.” Sam pushes his hair back from his face. “I spent a lot of time thinking you’d just abandoned us, and I never asked if that was something you’d do, or if maybe something had happened.”

 

Dean sighs. “It was my fuck up, Sam. I shoplifted, and I got caught.”

 

“Dad left you there,” Sam counters.

 

“He was protecting you.” Dean stares at the floor. “I don’t want to fight about this again.”

 

Sam clears his throat. “No, neither do I. I, uh, have something for you. I found it after Dad died.”

 

Dean takes the envelope that Sam holds out and sees his name written across the front in his dad’s handwriting. “I see.”

 

“I could have had Bobby send it to you,” Sam admits. “But I was so pissed off at you for not being there. I nearly threw it away a hundred times, but I couldn’t.”

 

Dean’s still staring at the envelope, and he’s not sure how he feels right now. Maybe just mostly numb. “Okay.”

 

“Do you want to open it?” Sam asks. “I can leave if you’d rather.”

 

Dean shakes his head, and then opens it, quickly scanning the words.

 

_Dear Dean,_

_I’m sorry for how things turned out. I know that probably doesn’t mean much now, but I did what I did to protect you and Sammy. I hope you can understand that someday, and that you can believe it’s not your fault. You made the best out of things, and that’s something to be proud of._

_Take care of yourself._

 

There’s a scrawled signature at the bottom, and Dean lets out a choked laugh. “Dad never was a man of many words.”

 

“No, he wasn’t,” Sam agrees. “Are you—are you okay?”

 

Dean takes a deep, shaky breath, and meets Sam’s gaze, feeling a little of his burden lift. “I think I might be. Do you want a drink?”

 

A tentative smile curves Sam’s lips. “Yeah. I’d like that. Maybe you can tell me what it’s like working for the Avengers.”

 

And Dean smiles back. “If you want, I’ll introduce you sometime.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. For real, you cannot just leave a kid in the custody of the state and expect to pick them up later. There will be some repercussions, especially if it’s a state-sponsored group home, and the kid ends up staying there post-sentencing.
> 
> 2\. Dean would have had to be processed in order to end up in the group home, just FYI. If a minor is adjudicated as a law violator, they would have some form of due process, which would mean that John let Dean go through a good part of that by himself. Maybe not the whole thing, but some of it.
> 
> 3\. Just because you have a college degree doesn’t mean you have to be an officer. You can actually have a degree and go enlisted/non-com, or you can enlist, get your degree, and become an officer. I’ve known both to be true.
> 
> 4\. It’s entirely true that once a juvenile is in the system, the entire family comes under scrutiny, so John’s paranoia in that regard is not without reason. A juvenile in the system can warrant, say, family therapy, which brings the whole family in, and parents of juveniles in the system often are required to do certain things to close a case. A parent required to show fitness as regards one child could be required to show fitness as to all children under their care, custody, and control. Considering John’s concerns about Sam, he would have been especially worried about Sam going into care. Dean, he could trust on his own.
> 
> 5\. Dean could have run away, and if he’d gotten out of the state, no one probably would have chased him, but you have to ask yourself: if Dean didn’t run in Bad Boys, even after his sentence was done, why would he run at any point after that? I think canon is pretty clear that Dean got comfortable, and he liked his life there. If John never showed up, and Dean didn’t have a ready way of finding him, what would he have done? This fic posits one possible answer. But only one.


End file.
